But ladies and gentlemen. We all smashed summer. We did it again. Whether it be having to try and work out child care whilst you both worked full time (and jeez I have no clue how you do this. You are marvels). Or organising playdates, trips to museums, holidays on rainy British beaches, or ridiculously hot foreign shores. We watched a ungodly amount of kinder eggs being opened and overdosed on cocktails sausages on the never ending round of picnics we attended.
I know that people will say "oh you will miss these kind of summer holidays when the kids are bigger". And you know what I probably will. But when I am in the midst of watching my son trying to kill my daughter whilst I google "WHAT THE HELL CAN I DO IN BIRMINGHAM WITH TWO SMALL CHILDREN TODAY" I feel nothing but overwhelmed and stressed. But I did it. Seven weeks. That's 49 days. That's around 588 hours to sort out fun. To make memories. To kick ass.
I'm never good at high fiving the big triumphs as I'm too busy thinking about the little disasters but tonight? With only a few days to go? I am patting myself on the back hard. And I am sending you a virtual high five and a bottle of bubbly too. I'm high fiving me for filling up a giant paddling pool relentlessly for five days. For packing for four different adventures away. For not losing my sh*t when it rained for a week solidly at Butlins. For managing to make sure my two had the greatest summer ever. Like the summers you are supposed to have in movies.
Me? I'm exhausted. I'm knackered. I'm secretly a little bit excited to get back to work and get back to the routine of school runs and coffee breaks with colleagues. I'm looking forward to autumnal mornings and boots rather than sweating in Primark beach dresses and flip flops. But mainly? I'm happy. Happy to say that I have survived another summer with small humans. And no matter how 'energetic' they got or 'interesting' they were. They both went to bed each one of those 49 days with a smile on their faces, really dirty feet and quite strange tan lines.