Twiddling Thumbs

It’s been exactly one week since I remembered what silence sounds like. A week to the day the 2 year old officially started pre-school and the 4 year old was upgraded from pre-school to the fully fledged version. Albeit the silence is just for a precious 3 hours 3 times a week, I now appreciate that it is more than golden – it is priceless! The tapping of the keyboard actually resonates round the room – I never knew that. Thoughts can run without interruption and toilet trips can finally be taken alone.
But at the same time, their voices echo continually in my subconscious and in the stillness of their rooms resound the patter of their little feet. I think of the 4 year old, brave and bubbly (and often defiant). The 2 year old, full of love and laughter (and more often than not, selfish and possessive). And how incomprehensibly and comprehensively I miss them…
Then too soon, my brief respite is over and they are home, shrieking, arguing, wrestling, playing. Silence has taken cover away from the line of fire in a war zone. But I don’t mind too much because I know it will be back soon and there will come a day when it comes back and never leaves, when the children are grown up and gone. And I don’t want that day to ever come.
But for now it begs the question: aside from the groundhog day style drudgery of washing up, laundry, tidying, cooking and gym sessions to ward off mid-life spare tyre-dom, how best to fill that time?

The Fearless Four Year Old

Today my 4 year old will undergo her first experience of public speaking. Well, more accurately she will be presenting a ‘show and tell’ to her fellow classmates, following the prescribed guidelines, kicking off with ‘Good afternoon Reception. Today I have brought in xyz….’ And concluding with ‘Any questions or comments? Thank you for listening’.

The 4 year old has the fearlessness and confidence reserved purely for those in the cbeebies viewing age category and the corresponding uncompromised innocence that goes hand in hand. I, on the other hand, have been tarnished by the years of humiliation, rejection and interviews gone awry to be so gung ho about winging it in front of an eagerly awaiting crowd.

When I try to get her to rehearse a third trial run, she barely interrupts her portrait of me (scarily accurate bar the Mr Happy sized smile, distinctly more like a grimace in reality), to assure me that won’t be necessary and that she is fine. Internally, I am screaming ‘But you haven’t even got any prompt cards! Except they’d be as useful as a chocolate teapot given you can’t even yet read!’.

Yes, I am clearly doing more than enough fretting for the both of us.