Before, I could never have imagined how fast six months could go. Even with three children growing up before my eyes, nothing prepared me for the speed with which the school year disappears. From the moment my eyes open, and I’m sucked in the vortex of the morning rush, to the clatter of shoes and bags as the layers of the day are removed and we swing into the reader/homework/dinner/bed shift, our world seems to have been consumed by school. Are the uniforms clean? Is there something for lunch tomorrow? How long until pickup? Is the reader ticked off? How long until holidays?
He thrives on learning. Always has done. He’s a bookworm, gifted with a thirst for understanding. Why? Why? Even when, at 3, mummy had reached her quota of whys for the day, he managed to skip straight ahead of me. But, mummy? How come? And now, the real fun begins. Projects. The note came home with instructions for the optional project, on farm animals. And so with a piece of paper each, and a box of textas beside us, we sat down, and we all did our “projects” together. Mummy joined in the cow party, but Master Three was lost in a world of doodling, and as I watched, he felt my eyes upon him, and turned to me. “I dwawing a PTERANODON, mama!” as he proudly holds up his paper. I look at him and smile, thinking it’s not just our big boy who has changed since the start of the school year, but also this little boy, suddenly bereft of a playmate he has depended on his whole life, now a “big boy” with his own ideas of what he wants and how things should be. Six months. And it feels like a moment.