‘Hack’ to School… (Yes. I punned.)

Back to School Hacks

Now that we finally know that our little darlings will be going back to school, we can start to think about getting ready.

Maybe you are already organised. Maybe you have been putting it off. Maybe you spread it out over a few months.
Maybe, like me, you refuse to acknowledge it until the very last minute and every year, berate yourself on August 29th as you trawl through the leftovers on the shelves.

Let’s be honest, whichever you are, we all get there and they all get back to school fully clothed and stocked up. Eventually.

But for many this year, there was a genuine concern that it was too early to start getting ready for fear that they would be off longer, was real.
Thankfully, we have had it confirmed by the powers that be, that yes indeed, our precious schools will reopen next month.

And I don’t know about you, but my two daughters are DELIGHTED.

As am I.

So here are some tips for getting organised (if you aren’t already!)
1. Make a list – What do you already have? What do you need to get? Do you REALLY need it all?
Try on uniforms and check what you need to replace. Is there really anything wrong with the trousers from last year? Will the jumper last another few months? School clothes are now available all year round. They don’t magically disappear from the shelves in October.
Check what you have already – Go through what is in the house – At a guess, there are 7 of those lunch box bags in my kitchen if I looked. So again, they’re going to be reused. Do invest in sturdy lunchboxes however. I love the boxes with compartments for the food. Again, check what you already have. The good ones last for years.. There is no Sanctimammy at the school gate checking that every item your child has is new.

2. Accept help if you’re lucky enough to be offered it.
Lists also help you know what to ask for if a family member asks what they can buy little Archibald or Susanella for going back to school. PE tee-shirts? Socks? Colours? Hat? If/When Aunty Jacinta asks, don’t be afraid to say what you need. Otherwise you’ll end up with 4 lunchbags or pencil cases.

3. Stock-Box If you do end up with loads of extra stationery sets or twistables, it’s a good thing. Children LOSE EVERYTHING! That lovely full pencil case won’t be full by midterm. I have a “stockbox” with all the extra sharpeners and rulers and crayons that they get and as the school year goes on, trust me, it’s a life saver. And only put what they need into the pencil case in September. Add to it then as they need.

4. New school bag? Considering that our kids were only in school until March, you might find that the school bag is still in good nick. Again, if it’s not done, why buy a new one. My eldest’s bag is as good as new from last year. (A few new Harry Potter badges on it and woohoo!) She’ll get a few more months out of it. There really is nothing wrong with the bag she has. And if and when it IS done, then I’ll get her a new one. Again, schoolbags are in shops all year round.

5. Leave shoes til last – If your kids are anything like mine, they like to jump two shoe sizes in the space of a week. Shoes will be measured and bought the week before school opens.

6. Labels – This is something I do buy happily. The sticky labels are brilliant. There are LOADS of different companies and they go on everything and STAY on everything. And as they get older, you have to label fewer things, so you’ll find that you won’t need to buy them every year. In Junior infants, label everything. I stopped short of putting one on her forehead. You can now get the labels that have little symbols for allergies or medical conditions on them too.

7. Jumpers/crests – If your kids go to a school with a crested uniform, remember that you can buy a jumper anywhere and have the label embroidered. My girls prefer lighter jumpers than the ones available, so I buy them and get the crest put on. It’s half the price and they’re perfect.
For many, the idea of not buying everything new is weird. As with everything, it’s YOUR call.

If you couldn’t imagine sending them back with the same schoolbag or lunchbag or whatever, that’s your call. But it’s not always a possibility for everyone.

For me, I don’t see the harm in teaching them that they get new when it’s needed. I’ve had the same “schoolbag” for almost 20 years.(OK it’s sentimental at this point, but still. It’s still doing the job!) And while of course it’s lovely to get new things, who says that everything has to be new in September each year?

Back to school costs a fortune. But it can cost less if we remove ourselves from the notion that they need new everything.

We all love a good hack! Especially when it helps save a few pennies.
If you have any tips to add, please share in the comments.
Mammy

The Stinging Truth…

Mammy found herself minion free today. 

Off I trot my solo self to the big homeware shop where I have all the time in the world to wander and dander and ponder how fablis all-the-everything would look in my house. 

As I stand in the lighting section, wondering if the NYC skyline touch lamp would be cool and quirky, or just tin and tacky in her bedroom, Mammy experiences a level of chill that, quite frankly, Mammy has not experienced since March 11th.  

I put my hand back on to the bar of the trolley, deciding that actually, this light would look ridonkulous in my bedroom and as my hand hits the bar, I jolt it back immediately as what I think is an electric shock blasts through the palm of my hand.  

What the FECK?

As I lift my poor hand away from the jaws of the trolley handle, I quickly realise that it’s NOT an electric shock.  The MONSTER is still in my hand and is busy burrowing its pointy arse into my hand… 

I shake it off, and watch as the little wanker of a wasp spins across the floor and under the shelf full of NYC skylines. 

I have been stung. 

I have been stung by a chuffing wasp… 

I have let a yelp out of me and am frozen to the spot… I dance around a little bit, suppressing a scream and glad that my mask is hiding my Crazy Lady grimaces from the poor child who watching me from behind her Mum’s leg.  

The last time I was stung by a wasp, I was 9 years old and my Darling Granda fixed it immediately with a blue ink teabag, icecream and a hug…  

RIddle me this…What the Fuck does an adult do when stung by a wasp? 

 I want my Granda.  I want my Mammy. I want my Him.  I want someone to ADULT right now so I can cry like a 9 year old and feel very fucking sorry for myself. 

The burn is real now and my hand is pulsing. I look down, fully expecting a gaping fleshy bloody wound to be ravaging my skin.  Of course, there is nothing but an angry little pinprick left by an angry little prick… But my poor hand is growing red and angry.  

I reach into my bag with the not stung hand, searching for my phone.  I need to TELL someone I have been stung. My phone is in the car… Feck. 

I’m not really sure what my Mammy or my Husband could have done through the phone to be honest, but I needed to TELL one of them that I have been stung by a wasp.   I can’t ring my Darling Granda… (If he answered, a wasp sting would be the least of my worries…) 

I am stung and phoneless and adult-less and now I DO want to cry. 

My brain begins to entertain the unfolding imaginary drama of having an allergic reaction and suddenly DYING in the middle of the aisle of cheap curtains, and I have to slap myself with a dose of cop-the-fuck-on and wise up.  

And of course, because I am a feckin grown up, and the only person in the store who KNOWS that I have been stung, I carry on as if I’m fine.

I’m FINE… 

 I head towards a quieter corner of the shop, pull the mask from my face for a second to allow some deep-deep-puff-puff-blow breaths, shaking my throbbing hand vigorously. 

Yeah.  Because we ALL know that shaking the burning limb makes it ALL better, doesn’t it?

I wander aimlessly, possibly a bit frantically through the store.  I find myself back in the lighting aisle, and spot the wanker wasp lying dead on the floor. Little shit will get no sympathy from me. 

Feeling in some way vindicated, I hiss at the wee fecker and head for the checkout. 

I can’t say I wasn’t in some way traumatised by the experience. I arrived home and unpack packets of clothes pegs, egg cups and a bottle of Zofloraaaah from the bag.  I genuinely do NOT remember putting them in the trolley. 

Husband arrives home and I’m like a 9 year old, showing him my no longer throbbing, but still fricken sore, poor wee hand. 

He does not have an ink teabag.

He does not offer my icecream.  

But he does give me a hug. 

It’ll do. 

The Moon and Me…

I should have feckin known…


I’ve just managed to get the two hallion stallions to bed. They have been absolutely WIRED this evening. Not in a “cute and funny, had too much sugar in GannyGanda’s” way…More like in that “If you look in my direction I will hiss and snarl and shoot daggers from my pretty blue eyes that are so sharp they will sting your Bitch-head” way.

The dog is being a cantankerous shite too. He is refusing to come inside. He has turned his back on me 83 times today and didn’t even have the decency to look excited when I tried to play with him earlier. He is however too old and lazy to bother with anything other than a bored and lethargic eyebrow raise which translates into “Feck away off woman. Can’t you see, I’m not in the mood? Catch it yourself you twat.”

Me?Well I shan’t pretend to be Mary-of-the-fecking-Poppins.Nope. I’m like a coiled and rusted, extra sharp barbed wire. If you get too close or look at me in the wrong way, there is a chance that I’ll snap and you’ll need a jab of some sort, like a Tetnus injection, to counteract the utter venemous HORMENTAL that is cruising through my feckin veins.

My Bullshit Barometer is wonky at the best of times. Today, it’s shattered, Stay away.

So tonight after tucking my little darlings in, having made only 93 threats and swearing FMLs 39 times, I momentarily considered pouring a large Wodka. (Mammy doos not drink wodka…or vodka for that matter, nor does Mammy drink on Monday nights, unless it’s a VERY special occasion.)

I did not pour anything. Instead, I checked the moon for the craic, only to see that it is indeed a New Moon. I now feel much better, that it is NOT just me and that my children are NOT turning into actual demonic shebithces and my beloved dog does not in fact HATE me… it’s just a phase we’re all going through…

Himself?Yeah… he’s fine. He’s working. (or hiding possibly in the gym. I can’t say I blame him to be honest.)

Anyone else go full blow LUNAtic with the moon?Just me?

Soft Play Hell…or Heaven?

Once upon a time, the words “Let’s meet at soft play” instiled a sense of dread in me.

I hated it.

Gasp… yes I just typed that out loud… HATED it.

All of it; The noise. The crowd. The which eats little people into pits of puff. The sensory overload. Crying, screaming… Yip. Hated it all.

But until the girls were a certain size, the joy of having to drag my adult arse through multicoloured jungle jaws into forests of foam to supervise or save a wobbler or toddler from the pits of hell…

Nope.

But being the mother of the fecking year that I sometimes am, I put MY dislike of it aside and brought them, sometimes. But unless I absolutely HAD to, I admit I avoided it. I was clever actually. I offered it as a fun activity for them to do with Daddy.

Pahahahah! Take that Daddy Bear. Off you crawl.

But I must say that once the toddler phase has passed and your little one turns into a more sturdy little Fuman bean, (human being) soft play can be JOY.

JOY I tell you.

For now, at the grand age of four year bold, my youngest can hold her own and happily throws her shoes at me as she runs in… in some cases never to be seen again, until hometime. Or until the thirst takes over and the rosy red panting leads her to come running for water…

I can now bring my laptop WITH me and if I position my adult arse correctly, I can write, watch them AND drink a coffee all at once.

Getting them OUT of the place is often a challenge, but hey. It’s one I’ll take. For they are happy and sweaty and exhausted.

And I’ve had a full hour of coffee.
And I’ve written this…

Thank you Soft Play.

I may now promote you from hell to heaven. (Well, baby steps eh?)

A Train to Somewhere Special…

We’re going on da train Mammy.”

“Are we really?”

I do enjoy how much of a novelty the concept of a train is for my kids. Mini-Me will probably GET that ticket for the Hogwarts Express before we see trains in Donegal in fairness.


“Come on Mammy. Get on!”
“Where are we going?” Mammy asks.
“Somewhere special” answers my wee conductor.

The closest my Donegal Babies will get to a train is the Hogwarts Express


She’s turned the sofa into a train, using cushions to create compartments.
Quite frankly, I’m all for any game that involves Mammy getting to sit her arse on the sofa for a bit.

As I grab my cuppa and walk towards the sofa, sorry train, she is putting the passengers into their “carriages”.

“You sit in here Chase, aside Marshall.”

Aw.

She turns to the ponies… “You guys go in here togever.”

She puts two members of a Sylvanian Family of hedgehogs into the last carriage. “You girls go in here…”

I’m about to ask where exactly Mammy is supposed to go, seeing as that all the carriages are now taken by fluffy bottoms.

“Why don’t you put them in beside your PawPatrol…(sorry POP a Troll)… so I can sit in that carriage I ask.”

“Because of Cowona viwis…”

“Sorry what now?”

“COWONA VIWIS… Only bruvers and sisters can be togever Mammy. We can’t mix them up…”

Fuck.

“You sit here.” I plonk myself at the end of the sofa train and watch her jump on the other end and start to “drive” the train, choochoo sound effects and all.

And while she is off in her imagination, on her way to ‘somewhere special’, I sit at the back, a little bit broken that no matter how much I’ve tried to normalise and downplay the effect of this shitstorm on my wee angel, the impact of it and the reality of it is there in front of me, as plain as a big feckin train.

Fuck you very much Corona Virus.

I never did find out where the ‘somewhere special’ was… I suppose I was already there.