September is a funny time for me.
It’s the month my mother died.
It’s the month my older daughter gets another year older.
It’s the month both girls go back to school.
It’s the month I always think I’ll turn over new leaves.
It’s the time of the year when we move.
We’re moving again at the end of October; the last time we moved, six years ago, it was mid-November; we bought our first flat in mid-October 1995.
This month I’m applying for a couple of jobs.
I’ve also had several days where I’ve been really short-tempered with the children.
The children, the older one especially, have often been very short-tempered with me.
We have had some lovely times when no one was in a bad mood. When I thought I’d found us somewhere to live from the end of October. When I realised how lucky we are to have a buyer for our house. When we all just enjoyed our lives and got along just fine.
Then there are other times when I wonder if we’re doing the right thing, moving away from the friends we’ve made in Somerset. We’re moving to Salisbury in Wiltshire to be nearer to my partner’s job and for a bit more life and culture for me and the girls.
We were on holiday in France until one day before the new term started. I was happy and sad to get back into the school/work routine. Happy because I like it when the girls are at school for some of the time and I don’t endlessly have to think of “things to do today”. Sad, because it was the end of a holiday in the warm, French air.
I have just read a blog post by Kate Figes. Her children are obviously older than mine (teenagers) and her post has a greater sense of imminent loss and departure, with just a few years to go until the children leave home to start their own adult lives.
September certainly feels like a time full of nostalgia and wistfulness. This is no way to start a new life in a new city.