Well, we made it. In some parts of the country, kids have been back a while and others are just returning this week. The beginning of the summer holidays feels like a hazy dream – we had hope then, and a naivety that this year would be a bit less chaotic and the house hadn’t been ransacked yet. Somewhere in the middle we found our groove (ie lowered our expectations and got used to tripping over stuff and feeding people seven times a day) and then for the last couple of weeks we’ve been preparing for the return-to-school.
It started with the digging out of last term’s uniform for an inventory check. I dug through the clothes from the oldest to see what could be revived for the youngest. I made a list.
I’ve done enough years of trekking to the actual shops for trousers and shirts to rifle through seas of grey and white clothing to find every size but the one we need, so I did an online shop. Then we trekked to the actual shops anyway; we hit up Clarks, we sourced stationery. I ticked shit off the list.
At this point Doug commented on how expensive it all was and I nearly ripped his face off while informing him through gritted teeth that I was part way through a three-step process after asking Instagram how to return grubby, stained polo shirts to their former white glory. (As an aside, I don’t think I’ve ever had so many enthusiastic responses to a query on Instagram, which both impresses me and makes me sad for all of us in equal measure. Remember when we used to drink Hooch in parks and hope to get felt up on a Friday night?).
The other money saver I am an avid fan of is the ‘room to grow’ method of uniform purchasing. This means I only have to buy every other year as they wear it from oversized (think the kid at the end of Big in Tom Hanks’ suit) right through to hipster tight, and somewhere in the middle it fits like a dream. Saves cash, saves me from the pain of going to buy uniform quite so often, all while reinforcing that I have indeed turned into my mother.
So, we’ve got all the gear, we’ve labelled it. We’ve smartened them up with a haircut. For reasons unknown we pile in the optician and dentist because it’s possible they’ve not been for…can it be… two years? Ah gee, yeah stick that in the mix too, why not.
Then starts the communication. There are emails from school, there are multiple website logins for payments, the official parent WhatsApp group kicks off, then the splinter WhatsApp group runs a commentary on the official group and whether Belinda was being passive aggressive. (The answer is always yes, btw). There’s a retracted email from school that the form you just filled in was the wrong one.
What time do they need to be in? What day is PE? Were they meant to do homework over the summer? And then – steady yourselves – the After School Club Wars. First off it’s the battle with the kids as you try to direct them toward something to expand their mind - “Mandarin? No?” says Doug hopefully while I hang my head and we settle on Dodgeball. This year the website crashed with parents desperately trying to book up clubs. Nothing reminds parents how bloody great school and after school club is like spending weeks with your children 24/7 while trying to do something like hold down a job.
Spare a thought for anyone with a reception starter doing a ‘staggered start’. It’s a small taste of what is to come, and the fact that the education system – and society - is based on having a parent at home full time, which is increasingly less and less of us. Not to mention the confused kids who’ve been excitedly told about Big School for months and find themselves home again after thirty minutes on their first day, having been at school for just enough time to put their jumper on a peg.
And then, on top of the inordinate amount of information and to-do lists to tick off, there’s the emotional fall out. This carries through whatever year because kids generally don’t like change and nor do we. It’s especially tough when it’s the start of school. These people don’t know my child, their quirks and foibles. The worry that they won’t have any friends. They’ll be tired and misbehave and be tarnished as that kid. Essentially worrying about things that are out of our control, but take up precious time in our minds. Lump in some guilt that we’re somehow to blame if yours is the kid that clings to you like a koala on day one.
We make it harder for ourselves with this guilt. The guilt of not being good enough – not doing enough, not being fun, too much screen time – can cause us to make daft decisions. When I’m overwhelmed, rather than make life easier I double down like I’m trying to prove something. In the first lockdown, I began making fresh soup because one of my kids declared they liked tomato and basil soup. To take you back (I promise only briefly) it was at the point that all childcare and schools were closed, we couldn’t leave the house for more than an hour, and my husband and I were both trying to work full time jobs while supervising three children, the youngest of whom was two. Sure, it is good to make food from scratch, but there’s a time and a place and this wasn’t it. When one of my team happened to call as I was burning myself while taking the roasted tomatoes out of the oven, laptop precariously balanced on the kitchen top and the background noise of kids harming each other, she said ‘STOP. What are you DOING?’.
I’ve just interviewed journalist and author of Overwhelmed Brigid Schulte for the Don’t Buy Her Flowers podcastand I asked her - why do women feel the need to excel at motherhood and feel constantly guilty that we’re not doing it ‘right’? Over years of research, Brigid explains this guilt, that leads to Overwhelm as we try and assuage the guilt, is because society has told us for generations that not putting others first makes us a bad mother, a bad woman.
So if we work, we work extra hard at home to prove we are good mothers. And if we don’t work, we overcompensate for not taking a salary to prove we’re good mothers. It’s bullshit.
As Brigid says ‘It’s time to take a deep breath and let all that shit go’. And that includes trying to perfect the start of term.
And just a small story to let you know that it will be ok if you don’t remember everything and get it exactly right. At pick up a few years ago, I was greeted with Mabel saying ‘I didn’t have a packed lunch’. They’d been on a school trip and I’d totally forgotten. ‘Don’t worry, everyone gave me a bit of their lunch’ said Mabel gleefully, absolutely delighted to have enjoyed a smorgasbord of everyone else’s best bits. Even the teacher had given up some of her sandwich. It had been a busy week and I was hit with ‘I cannot do this, I’m failing’. I went and tapped on the Head’s office door and started to apologise profusely, all red-faced and embarrassed. And this brilliant Head Teacher (and mum of three herself) said ‘Do not give it another thought – it’s nothing, it’s so unimportant. You’re doing a great job’.
And yes, I cried.
So, if you need to hear it, you’re doing a great job. It feels too much because you care, and because often it is too much. And if it’s a big change for your child, give it six weeks and I promise the new will feel more routine, and you’ll be doing it, and it’ll all be ok.
Oh, and let that shit go.
Steph Douglas runs thoughtful gifting company Don’t Buy Her Flowers and you can listen to her podcast on Overwhelm with Brigid Schulte here