You can probably tell by the title that this blog post is not going to be particularly elegant. It is not going to be full of cute photos of my baby. It is not going to be me trying to figure out the perfect capsule wardrobe for a stay at home mum. It is not going to be me getting nostalgic over how quickly my bebes are growing. It is not going to be a movie review, or a new playlist, or an example of the latest bit of fiction I just wrote. It is not going to be any of the things I planned on talking about when I started this blog. There are no pearls, no lipstick recommendations, no clever critique of Emily Blunt’s performance in Sicario.
Instead I’m going to talk about going to an interview at a primary school before enrolling my eldest child in kindergarten for next year. My first child, my baby I gave birth to approximately 30 seconds ago. The one I’m trying to make up for not having a clue how to parent. The one I haven’t toilet trained yet. The one I let watch too much tv. The one one never sat down with to teach him how to count to 10. The one I keep thinking I will eventually be the kind of mother I want to be with him. He’s still a baby. I still have time to make it up to him. But I don’t. Because he isn’t. And that’s shit.
I had no idea where I was going to send him to school. I was going to try a Launch Into Learning program at the public primary school down the road, to see what that was like. I was going to send him to daycare and get feedback from the early learning instructors as to whether he was ready to start kindy next year. I was going to stick to my conviction – which has been backed up by studies several times over – that starting school too early actualy has a detrimental effect on academic performance later in life. Particularly in boys. I wasn’t going to send him to kindy just because it’s cheaper than daycare and I need him out of my hair.
But I found out enrollments were closing in just two weeks and I want to send him to kindy because it’s cheaper than daycare and I need him out of my hair.
And that’s just a bit shit.
I feel guilty for not making a big deal out of his first birthday because I was already pregnant with his younger brother and in the throes of the worst morning sickness I’ve ever experienced. I know 1-year-olds don’t care about their birthdays but I still feel guilty. I, who have always been quite proud of my relaxed attitude to parenting and my refusal to guilt-trip myself over small things. And that’s a bit shit.
I don’t think I know my second child very well, and that’s also a bit shit.
I have no idea how to pick a good school and make the right decisions about my children’s education because I feel like a child myself and really just have no effing clue about any of this. And that’s really shit.
I feel like I only just figured out the whole baby thing. I only just figured out how to balance a newborn with toddlers and I was *finally* blessed with a baby who slept well and didn’t have colic. I was *finally* enjoying that whole newborn stage. I had done it. I was all relaxed and nuturing and zen and all that crap. But that third baby – my beautiful, chilled out, dreamboat of a baby, with sleep patterns other mums would kill for – this is the one who gives me postnatal depression. This is the one who broke me.
I’ve been on anti-depressants for 7 days. I have no idea what I’m doing.
And that’s a really, really shit.