School's back!

I don't know about you, but I am just thrilled that the kids went back to school today - in fact, I feel like I've been given time off for good behaviour, or something. Phew!

I've decided that 6 weeks is just way too long for an at-home vacation. And not only that, but I observed a truly strange event occurring over the children's holiday. I found, that the more uninterrupted time the kids spent with their dear old mum, the more their umbilical cords started to regrow. It's true - I swear!

At the start it was fine. They entertained themselves, played nice, kept busy. But, as time passed, they became more and more attached to me. In fact, their distance from me decreased every single day. Until, at a point, I was being shadowed wherever I walked. I couldn't escape them! I'd get up to make a cup of tea, and they'd follow me, noses at my elbows.

"What are you doing here?" I'd ask.

"Just seeing what you're doing," they'd reply.

I'd get up to go to the loo. As I sat down, two little faces would appear in the doorway.

"Excuse me," I'd try and be as composed as a da Vinci painting, "but, I'm kinda busy here." (It's very hard, by the way, to be as poised as Mona Lisa when your arse is uncovered and you're holding back a fart.)

"It's ok," they'd say, squeezing their eyes tight shut, "we won't look."

"But I sort of need some privacy," I'd urgently beg.

"It's ok, Mom. There's nothing to be embarrassed about, you know. Everybody poos!"

"Will you just get out of here!" I'd cry. They would vanish, a door slamming behind their departing footsteps. Later, I'd find them sitting on the floor just outside the door, pressing their cheeks up against the wood, like forlorn, neglected orphans.

So you can imagine my great relief at having a child-free space around me as we speak. It's a bit like fresh air. And it's quiet. And no-one's squabbling. No-one's asking me for a drink. Or a snack. Or to wipe their bottom. Ah. What great peace is this!

But I'm sort of starting to miss the girls - can't wait to collect them and hear about their day. Tragic, aren't I?