last few days of hearing, "last few days of freedom, eh?"
Why is it that people of good will and general geniality feel obliged to comment on how many days of summer vacation remain? It's downright evil as well as unnecessary; if I couldn't count, they wouldn't let me be a teacher. My dental secretary, who is one of the nicest women of my acquaintance, very nearly sprouted horns before my eyes. I couldn't get out of there fast enough.
I have no explanation for this. These are not people who would feel it necessary to comment were I to become hugely bloated in pregnancy, or if my lipstick was smeared on my teeth (hypotheticals, both). I suppose that I see the end of summer as a misfortune that must be endured, and they see it as a topic of polite conversation. Or maybe, as Andrea postulated, they're just jealous. Which is funny, because I couldn't give my job away ten months of the year, but for two months I'm blessed with the same "must be nice" type comments.
For the record, it is nice. It's so nice that even when you've had a mediocre summer you dread return. When you've had a big sunny drift of do-as-you-please in a gorgeous castle, as I have, it's much more painful than that.
I was getting unpleasant to live with, so I went in on Wednesday to lance the boil of my anxiety. It worked, too – I have only a few more things to do before the gates open on Tuesday, and they depend on other people. I'm set, I think. I don't want to engender the typical punishment for hubristic types, so I'll say no more. At least I'm not chewing up the furniture in the middle of the night (anymore).
The Boy has a position for September till June (we hope). He has been writing lessons for three weeks, and visiting his classroom all this week. Let's not speak of the Boy. He makes me feel nervous and inadequate.
Blake is also ready for school, inasmuch as such a nebulous thing can be said of a 3 1/2 year old who thinks that eventually he's going to be a baby again. (Abstracts like the one-way nature of time are a little difficult for him.) I ironed his name labels to his uniform last night, aided by a healthy dose of Steamwhistle lager & an old Sugarcubes album. I found that both of these things helped to blunt the trauma of sending my tiny defenceless chick out into the harsh maelstrom of all-day Montessori JK.
2 weeks ago: sandy, naked, Blake
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Don't make me send out the Blake. He doesn't listen to *anyone.*