I forget.
Each Summer holidays I forget how wonderful they are, how sodding HARD they are, how full the days, how LONG some days, how short some others...how blissful some moments (beach, sun, children playing and me reading 'The Help') and how BLOODY AWFUL other moments ( beach, sun, children playing and me freezing my tits off in an icy wind, longing for home and tea)
I forget the highs and the lows, the tumbles and the scrapes, the giggles and the rows. I forget how FULL each moment is when we are all together, eating our breakfast, arguing over the cereal choices (low and v. v. boring) bickering over what to do that day, chuckling at memories of the previous day.
I forget the bliss of lie-ins, as children crawl out of bed early and watch TV or else lie in themselves, and we all emerge, tousle haired at about 9.00, clustering round the kettle as I make tea to take back to bed.
Forget the guitar teacher coming at 5, and realise with horror several hours later, as we amble slowly home from the beach, pink faced and glowing from hours of body surfing.
Forget timetables and lists.
Just being. Day after day after day.
Each year I forget this. And each year I remember, with heart stopping gratitude, that the Summer holidays are here again.
Until the cat is sick over the children's dirty washing, or voices are raised for the 5th time within an hour, over a RABBIT RUN for God's sake, and I wish fervently for September, and the bliss of an empty house, and lists, and timetables.
But for now, I am loving it.
For now, this is, I think, heaven on earth.
(Ker'ist, children all in tears about how to bounce on trampoline. Lunch not made and Husband fed up with ironing each night as I moan how little time there is to do everything. So hard to fit it in between my morning cup of tea, tennis and swim on the beach... )
