It’s that time of year again. The smell of autumn in the air & bushes heavy with blackberries. And butterflies. Lots & lots of butterflies. All sitting in the pit of my stomach, churning my insides over & over as we embrace the start of a new school year.
I hate it. The end of lovely, lazy summer days with my girls, replaced by the frantic pace of timetabled term life.
My desire to opt out of convention all together, embrace my inner hippy & home educate my daughters always reaches a crescendo at this point in the year.
Today this feeling has crashed over me like a tidal wave, divesting me of my usually cast iron grip on all the extras our family’s “back to school” routine entails.
It crept up on me as I waited at the pharmacy, clutching gallons of lucozade, waiting for the school’s supply of prescription items to be dispensed.
I felt that rush of resentment toward mine & my daughter’s peers who know nothing about the extra preparation that goes into our school year. They were all off enjoying their last day of freedom, not finalising care plans & hypo boxes & flash cards of “what to do….”. They don’t understand why I hold a metaphorical breath from the moment I entrust my child to the care of strangers in the morning, to the moment I catch sight of her holding court in a gaggle of girls & chatter, having managed to negotiate another day with adults who double check & question her every decision during that day, making her doubt her pretty flawless abilities.
This year, however, I have determined to ensure her teachers trust her judgement more. And make her doubt her’s less.
Maybe then, I can look forward to the start of a new academic year with excitement at all she will learn, and not fear it for all that could go wrong.