The uniforms were all ironed. The lunch boxes were packed. Christ, we even knew where the book bags were.
One day. It lasted one day.
Then the roads froze. The schools closed. Instead of a warm office full of smiling people, I find myself in a house full of tetchy children who hate playing in the snow. Really. Suggesting to Littlest yesterday that she might like to make a snow angel was met with torrents of scornful giggles. Lying down? In the wet snow? What the hell was mummy talking about?
A ten minute car trip to have Eldest's feet measured for orthotic splints turned into a full morning's journey on foot.
Not that I minded. What's to mind? (I say that with the confidence of a woman who owns an off-road wheelchair).
I learnt something new about middle age. Middle age is not about lines and wrinkles. Middle age is about wrapping yourself up like a walking duvet with no real thought to what that looks like. There were girls on the path dressed in ballet flats wearing only a cardigan, who seemed to have forgotten to put on a skirt.
(And another thing. Thinking, "Has she forgotten to put on a skirt?" is also a sign of middle age.)
I've been reading a lot on other blogs about New Year plans for beautiful photographic projects. Mine is shaping up to be a lot less beautiful, and a lot less public. I'm nicking Friday Playdate's idea of taking a picture of myself every day this year to see actually how I look in this shower of cloth I call a wardrobe. I've already thrown out two items of clothing in disgust, and it's only Wednesday.
You see I might not lose 12lbs this year. And that's just fine. But dressing like a woman who is about to lose weight, so can't really think of buying anything nice to wear because it will be too big, is not. And I've been doing that for too long.