The Has-Been

Believe it or not, I was young once. 

I used to go out, and I danced the night away. I partied with colleagues on a school night and was at my desk not-too-bright, but early the next morning. A specific pair of skin-tight red trousers was legendary in certain quarters and single-handedly kept me in gin and tonics. 

Sadly as is true for all of us, I grew up. My body grew weary. Then I had children and my weariness became a permanent state.

Nights out these days are few and far between. They involve clock-watching to ensure getting back in time for the babysitter. The luxury of the hangover lie-in does not exist with small children. Snuggling on the sofa with a glass of red and a DVD is just so much more appealing somehow.

This Saturday, however, I'm doing it again. I'm getting glammed up in a new frock, and I've purchased new shoes. I'm booked into the hairdresser's in the morning. The thing is, it's not dinner and dancing at a top London nightspot - it's the much more difficult social minefield of the office Christmas party (or Winter Celebration, as they are insisting on calling it - that's a whole different post right there - I mean, FFS!). Shoved into a soulless room with colleagues I barely know, let along like, eating a mass-catered Christmas dinner and trying not to drink too much so I don't fall over in the new heels. 

Sounds appealing, doesn't it? Yet somehow I am ridiculously excited at the prospect. 

Keep your fingers crossed for me. It can't possibly end well.

Bleat, Bleat

My lovely friend Notes has tagged me to share my bleats with you. If you don't know what bleats are - they are too short for a blog, but too long for a tweet. Here, then, are the things currently bleatable in the Sardinetin household:

#moneymoneymoney A lottery win would be very welcome about now. By that I mean more than the £74 our work syndicate won a couple of weeks ago. It's been an interesting old year on the cash front (maybe one day my lovely husband will lift the embargo he has imposed, and let me blog the specific story), and Christmas ain't getting any cheaper. (I know we are lucky and there are people out there significantly worse off, so maybe I should wish the whole country a lottery win?)

#bahhumbug Owing to relatively last-minute changes of plan, we are celebrating Christmas at home this year. To say I am woefully unprepared is an understatement. OK, I admit - when it comes to most things, I am a last-minute kind of gal. Christmas, however, is normally the one exception. I'm usually the one with presents bought in July and cards sent on 1st December. Not this year, and it is driving me crazy.

#FairyDust I wish... No, sadly just the common or garden variety, I'm afraid. I do of course only have myself to blame. After all, hoovering is just so... well... bourgeois, don't you think? I'm much too Bohemian and intellectual to do such mundane tasks.

#wheresmymojomofo? I am of course, referring to my blogging mojo. It can't have failed to escape your attention that posts have been a bit scarce around here recently. All the usual excuses apply - work, kids, illness, Christmas. However, I will admit there is also a certain whiff of "eau de can't be arsed" hanging around the place (available in all good department stores). New year's resolution; must try harder. (All extremely ironic, really, considering I have been shortlisted for a blogging award - yes, me! Go on, click on the link and vote - you know you want to)

Who else fancies a good bleat? How about some of my new twitter followers:

Penny at The Alexander Residence
This Mid 30s Life
Muddleduck

Schools and Working Parents

Warning: Ranty, incoherent working parent

Being a working parent requires organisation. It requires a strong routine and precision planning of military proportions - or so I like to pretend, anyway (this is obviously where I am going wrong). Homework, reading, PE kits, water bottles... they all have their designated times and days. My neighbour (also a full-time working mother) has an impressive system of post-it notes to keep track of when cakes are due in for the fundraising café, when non-uniform day is, what the deadline is for paying for the Christmas dinner.

The system of communication by school is fairly sophisticated - we get regular "parentmail" emails, and texts in rare emergencies. It is a true godsend, without which I don't think we would be able to function properly. Have you ever tried finding a note in a child's bag when that child has been at after-school club until 5pm when that child's favourite pastime appears to be sticking random bits of paper together!?

Despite this, every now and then we are still floored by a request taped to the classroom door - a recent example; "Could all children please wear black for their assembly on Thursday". For starters, I do not believe in dressing children in black - there's plenty of time for that when they are teenagers - but that's a different subject. No, what floored me was that this note was apparently taped to the door at some point during a Monday. I say "apparently", as I had to rely on other mothers to inform me of this.

DD1 goes to breakfast and after-school club Monday to Wednesday. I only take and fetch her to and from school itself two days a week. As it was, my poor, neglected child was the only one dressed in navy blue, mainly thanks to the fact that she had the intelligence to inform me of the requirement on the morning of said assembly.

Part of me feels guilty about even posting this - I do think my daughter's school is fantastic and tries very hard - but I know other people struggle with this as well. (It also leaves me to wonder how people who do not see their children's teacher at all every week can possibly cope - and vice versa,  it must also be difficult for teachers.)

Do some schools still assume there will be a stay at home parent to manage such things, or am I being unfair?