When you’ve asked me ‘what’s for dinner’ for the 17th time and it’s not even lunch time yet, school can’t come fast enough. My back hurts from bending to pick up the same pair of shoes that you’ve left all over the house all summer. I’d ask you to pick them up yourself for the 188th time, but even I’m sick of the sound of my own voice.
“Stop yelling,” I yell.
My head hurts from the noise of holidays. You’re in my ear constantly during daylight hours and in my head throughout the night. All those friends to play, all that splashing in the pool, all the parties and the ever-present bickering that follows the three of you around like a heavy-metal playlist.
“Stop yelling,” I yell.
I’ve worked through the night most nights because working during the day when you are here just doesn’t feel right. I can’t for the life of me explain why I don’t want to explain that Mum has a job and find your own fun for a while. I want to be with you even when I don’t.
“Stop yelling,” I yell.
This morning we primped and preened you into submission, wetting down the cowlicks, neatly folding down the socks. I lined you up in your school uniforms for photos and it felt like you were all brand new.
Into the car we bundled, school bags packed, doors slammed, seat belts clicked and clock ticking over to 8:50 and I said, “it’s like the holidays never happened”. You reminded me of all the things we did, all the fun we had.
“They happened really big,” you all agreed.
Off you raced into the gates, school shoes squeaking and yelling, yelling, yelling. There were floods of tears from one resulting in a reluctant me standing awkwardly in line at the morning assembly; a giant looming over lines and lines of excited children, the small hand clinging tightly to my skirt feeling as precious as an umbilical cord. The final bell rang, the hand was moved to another skirt and eventually, suddenly, just like that, I was alone.
Alone is very, very quiet.