Bernard O'Shea: Back-to-school time, but what does it mean for me?

Every September, I convince myself that once the kids are back at school, I’ll finally sort my life out. The problem is, normal life has other plans

'I’m beginning to think September is Parent's New Year, and I’m clawing back my time as if it’s some magical dust that will make me a box-ticking, life-achieving monster.'

I wouldn't say I’ve been counting down the hours until my three darling, wonderful and eh… at times overly boisterous children return to their scholarly activities, but I have been counting the days.

We had a great summer. The days were sunny, long and warm, oh so warm. The paddling pool actually got a run-out this year — shorts worn not in hope but through necessity. Gallons of sunblock used and 99s eaten by the gallon.

In fact, if I was asked: ‘How was your summer?’ I’d reply that we did everything we normally do, except we were eating 99s while we did it.

But, as nice as it was, I’ll be honest, I’m looking forward to that school gate drop-off.

Regaining those golden mid-morning hours to get a bit of work done and maybe squeeze in a walk has been a lucid daydream taking up several gigabytes of space in my brain lately. I might even go for a coffee on my own without constantly having to say, "Will you leave your sister alone?" Who knows, I might even text another adult and go with them.

Or, while I’m at it, I could risk going for a swim without having to be plagued by three kids screaming "I WANT TO GO", but it’s been a lovely summer; it really has, honestly (as of writing this, there are 62 hours left before I say to them: "Have a great day, bye bye," and then I’m back to normal.)

But it’s this phrase "back to normal" that I decide to put under the microscope.

I’ve been saying it all week to people: "Next week now, back to normal." But what is my normal? I drop the kids off at school, and then I enact my world domination plans, that normally is my normal.

• Last September, I was going to lose five stone and get a six-pack, but with September looming ever closer, that hasn’t happened;
• Last September, I was going to learn Irish and be fluent within the year. That didn’t happen;
• Last September, I was going to learn to play golf. That didn’t happen;
• Last September, I was going to take the first step toward becoming a celebrant. That didn’t happen;
• Last September, I was going to teach myself the violin, meditation, and touch typing (I’m typing this two-finger style). Read three books per week, get rid of my iPhone. Cold-water swim every day...

I presume you’re getting the gist of this by now.

I’m beginning to think September is Parent's New Year, and I’m clawing back my time as if it’s some magical dust that will make me a box-ticking, life-achieving monster. None of it happens, and it’s because I recently realised I have completely underestimated how (forgive me for cursing here) f##king difficult ‘normal’ life is.

Normal life is a series of interruptions. Normal life is having plans but having to wait around for a plumber. Normal life is getting a call from the school that your child doesn’t feel well when you’re right in the middle of a work meeting you called. 

Normal life is getting piles. Normal life is spending an inordinate amount of time getting a verruca seen to instead of starting hyrox classes. Normal life is your car failing the NCT. Normal life is realising you’re never going to get a six-pack because you never had one in the first place. Normal life is realising you have less time left on the planet than you have lived.

As John Lennon put it so succinctly: “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.” Normal life is just life.

One thing is for certain. When the kids come home, and I ask them, "How was school today?" my daughter will generally go into a bit of detail. My youngest will tell me something amazing that happened his friend (it generally involves something to do with Ronaldo, pencils or their lunch), and my middle fella always gets annoyed and gives out to me for asking what he says is “a stupid question” and mutters: “Today was the same as all the other days.”

Then they will berate me for the dinner I’ve made and resent me for getting them to do their homework. After waiting two hours, the starting pistol is fired to get them ready for their activities.

Tears will be shed for lost football boots and there will be screaming matches over gum shields. Later that evening, I’ll be strong-armed into bringing them up to the local petrol station for ice-cream or sweets, followed by a stormy session of the UN Bedtime Council, at various stages of which they all protest and walk out.

As 10pm comes around, I’m tired, and all I want to do is go to bed myself. Another day done without once getting any closer to fluent Irish, learning the violin, becoming a celebrant , or developing a six-pack.

Maybe my middle fella has it right when he gets annoyed at me for asking how his day was.

“Today was the same as all the other days.”

I hope so. Because when I actually stop and look at it, the same as all the other days is pretty good.