Only lunatics are sad their kids are back at school

Who are these women who emerge from the January tour of school holiday duty fresh-faced and beatific as if their expectations of the time with their kids were no different to the reality? Lunatics.

RendezView. Back to school. (Pic: iStock)

Four — yes, four — mothers have stopped me this week to lament about our kids going back to school.

“I’m going to miss those easy, lazy days,” said one.

“Ugh, back to routine,” said another.

“Wasn’t it lovely not having to worry about bed times?” said a third.

I have no idea what the fourth mum said because I’d jammed my fingers in my ears and was legging it out of Coles — not easy when you’re lugging a pineapple, a new mop and three litres of milk because that’s the kind of erratic shopping you’re driven to by the 74th week of the school holidays. Oh, it’s only six? Really?

Who are these women who emerge from the January tour of duty fresh-faced and beatific as if they love nothing better than organising an impromptu lemonade stand and feeding homemade sausage rolls to the neighbourhood?

Lunatics, I tell you. Lunatics.

Because in my experience there’s a disconnect as massive as Mariah Carey’s (third) engagement ring between how you imagine the school holidays will unfold and how they actually do.

So, here’s a glimpse of my fantasy holiday (in italics) versus what really went down:

Exercise at 5.30am so I’m rearing to go by the time the kids wake at 7am

Reality: Sign up to 39 days of yoga for $39. Go to a class on December 22 and don’t pull out my pass again until Monday just gone.

“Seriously, 43 days have passed?” I enquire of the man on the desk wearing harem pants and bare feet. Worse, the 7-Minute Workout app beeps at me every evening to let me know I haven’t done the exercises that day.

OF COURSE I HAVEN’T DONE THEM! What with work and kids I don’t even have time to disable the bloody reminder.

It’s OK because I’m going to take the kids on lots of bushwalks.

I have to bribe the kids to come. “What CSIRO-recommended activity are we doing tomorrow?” enquires the eldest.

The youngest wears thongs. One breaks. Of course I’ve never mentioned in 15 years of parenting that joggers are sensible footwear for bushwalking.

I sign them up for an activity camp because “you’ll love doing pottery”.

They refuse to go.

That’s OK, I wanted them to help clean out the kitchen cupboards in preparation for flat sharing in years to come.

They carbon date our spices back to 2007 then Snapchat the evidence to their friends who will probably tell their own parents thus revealing my true slatternliness. We give up after the spice drawer because “heaven knows what we’ll find in the pantry”.

We’ll have tech-free days.

We have tech-free hours.

I download Sense and Sensibility and A Room With A View.

They watch the Kardashians while I work.

I take them to an exhibition of Chinese art, pointing out how one of the artists has photographed disabled children using the same vivid colour technique used in photographs of Chairman Mao. I tell them about communism and foot binding and how they should read Wild Swans and Mao’s Last Dancer.

They ask when we’re stopping for dumplings.

We go away for a few days with their cousins. It’s idyllic. We boogey board, play cards, go on bike rides, eat ice creams, collect driftwood. I fill up on family and am infused with gratitude that my brother and sis-in-law conveniently sprogged so my kids have ready-made playmates. On the way home my youngest is captivated by a group of girls on a hen night.

The girls on the hen night are carrying an enormous inflated plastic pink penis.

It rains. I come over all PE teacher and suggest Frisbee.

Instead they go to see Star Wars. Again.

Since we’ve got plenty of long unfilled hours the kids can shape up on their teeth brushing and finally get into a flossing routine.

No one appears to brush their teeth until I lose the plot, set the oven timer and stand over them. I rant about the cost of dentistry. I point out that our orthodontist is loaded and can afford to take his six children skiing in Aspen because children like mine don’t brush their teeth.

They look at me like I’m unhinged. I give such a detailed and enthusiastic display of flossing on January 29 that I suspect neither will fulfil my hopes that they become orthodontists.

Two weeks before the end of the holidays I buy clear contact and vow to watch a YouTube tutorial on how to cover exercise books without the contact wrinkling.

We cover the exercise books at 7.27am on the first day of school, trapping toast crumbs and cat hair under the contact. Art book looks particularly bad.

I pack them off to school and congratulate myself on all we achieved these holidays.

Who cares, we had fun.