I've taken to making lists. I'm not a naturally organised person, so I find this difficult and challenging - what, write down what I need to do? And then do it? Not just run around chasing my own tail like a half-witted labrador? It's proving pretty successful, and I'm powering through things like "make three thousand granny squares" and "sew a baby gro", and less successfully through things like "fill in Lucy's Rainbows form", "get Lucy a new passport" and "arrange birthday party". One thing I have managed to do though is "sort out who will pick up the children in September", which is a massive weight of my mind.
I work part-time, which means that I turn up at 12, teach between half past and half 3, run around at school until half 4, 5, then pick up the girls, drive home like a maniac, then spend the evening alternately tearing out my hair and shouting. This has worked well for precisely 1 person this year: my Head. It's been convenient having the girls at the Nursery in the Children's Centre, but not ideal - I really feel that Hattie has moved backwards, particularly in her behaviour (hitting is not good), and Lucy really hates it there, so I'm relieved that next year it will all come to an end. Lucy will be going to BIG SCHOOL and Hattie to a French nursery. But it means that picking up the girls becomes a bit of a problem, as they will be finishing before me. We had thought about a nanny, but the expense is quite prohibitive. The hourly rate is OK, but the agencies charge a massive amount to do very little, and the websites all want you to pay masses to contact someone via them. Rubbish. Fortunately, the mum of a friend of Lucy will do some pick ups, and someone else will do other pick ups and Grandad will do another load, and everything will be OK.
Having sorted that, and basking in a feeling of calm superiority at ticking another thing off the list of doom, I get a phone call. Can you come to Cubs, says Simon. Hattie's fallen off the climbing frame. She's banged her head. She threw up all over me, says Simon.
I'm not too proud to admit to panicking and working out how best to tell my boss that I'm not going in tomorrow. I felt a lot better pulling up outside Cubs to hear Hattie telling off her dad, and to see that she was pretty normal. I felt even better after speaking to my brother and finding out that these things are as common as a pulled elbow, that it's normal for them to be sick, that unless she's sick again, not to rush her to A&E, that she is fine, and please stop ringing me.
I felt worse putting her to bed at 9 after about 2000000 Peppa sodding Pig episodes; doctor advised keeping her up late, so I did. Bloody doctor.
Next Tuesday, I'm going out. BEFORE Cubs.
I work part-time, which means that I turn up at 12, teach between half past and half 3, run around at school until half 4, 5, then pick up the girls, drive home like a maniac, then spend the evening alternately tearing out my hair and shouting. This has worked well for precisely 1 person this year: my Head. It's been convenient having the girls at the Nursery in the Children's Centre, but not ideal - I really feel that Hattie has moved backwards, particularly in her behaviour (hitting is not good), and Lucy really hates it there, so I'm relieved that next year it will all come to an end. Lucy will be going to BIG SCHOOL and Hattie to a French nursery. But it means that picking up the girls becomes a bit of a problem, as they will be finishing before me. We had thought about a nanny, but the expense is quite prohibitive. The hourly rate is OK, but the agencies charge a massive amount to do very little, and the websites all want you to pay masses to contact someone via them. Rubbish. Fortunately, the mum of a friend of Lucy will do some pick ups, and someone else will do other pick ups and Grandad will do another load, and everything will be OK.
Having sorted that, and basking in a feeling of calm superiority at ticking another thing off the list of doom, I get a phone call. Can you come to Cubs, says Simon. Hattie's fallen off the climbing frame. She's banged her head. She threw up all over me, says Simon.
I'm not too proud to admit to panicking and working out how best to tell my boss that I'm not going in tomorrow. I felt a lot better pulling up outside Cubs to hear Hattie telling off her dad, and to see that she was pretty normal. I felt even better after speaking to my brother and finding out that these things are as common as a pulled elbow, that it's normal for them to be sick, that unless she's sick again, not to rush her to A&E, that she is fine, and please stop ringing me.
I felt worse putting her to bed at 9 after about 2000000 Peppa sodding Pig episodes; doctor advised keeping her up late, so I did. Bloody doctor.
Next Tuesday, I'm going out. BEFORE Cubs.
Oh! I love lists! I especially love ticking things off those lists. I have even been known to add things I have done to the list just so I can tick it off! :) I am glad Hattie is alright--so scary though. I just have to tell you that I love her name. My Grandma was named Hattie--she lived to be 94 before she passed away this spring. I always wished I could have used her name when naming my children--but after the first daughter came 3 boys,so Hattie was out!
ReplyDeleteHope the rest of your week goes more smoothly!
*smiles*
Thank you Kim! She is doing well, and you'd never know she'd banged her head. Silly girl.
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