The Robin, the tip and the night before school

Sunday night has a particular weight to it, especially the last one before returning to the classroom. It sits heavy on the chest, full of lists that won’t stay written down and thoughts that refuse to line up neatly. The room is quiet, but my head isn’t. I’m already rearranging desks, replaying conversations that haven’t happened yet, wondering if I’ve planned enough—or too much. Teaching has a way of creeping into every corner of a Sunday night.

The day itself tried its best to keep me grounded. I spent it outside, armed with garden shears, determined to wrestle some order back into the yard. Vines that had grown wild over the holidays came down in stubborn clumps. Nettles—stingy and overconfident—were cut back to size. I hosed down the patio, the water biting cold as it sprayed out, half frozen and numbing my fingers. At one point, in a moment that felt a bit symbolic, I sliced straight through the washing line with the shears. Clean cut. No going back. Some things really do just snap when they’re ready.

The tip run should have been quick, but of course it wasn’t. Half an hour waiting just to turn around, admit defeat, and come back later with the Christmas cardboard. Even that felt like a lesson: sometimes you don’t get to drop everything off when you want to. Sometimes you circle back.

And all the while, the robin was there.

Perched nearby, hopping closer, watching me hose the patio and hack back the overgrowth, as if supervising the whole operation. I kept glancing over, half-smiling. I’ve always believed that robin is Dad, keeping an eye on me, checking I’m doing okay. It didn’t judge the mess or the muttered comments under my breath. It just stayed. That felt like enough.

Now it’s Sunday night. The last takeaway of the holidays is on the table—rubbish food, eaten without ceremony—and tomorrow routine returns. Early alarm. Gym bag packed for the 6:15 class. The beginning of a new way of life for me and my girls this year. Healthier, steadier, more intentional… even if tonight my brain is still sprinting ahead of me.

There’s comfort, though, in knowing that despite the overthinking and the nerves, I’ve trimmed back what needed trimming. I’ve cleared a bit of space. I’ve been watched over. And tomorrow, when the classroom door opens again, I’ll step into it carrying all of this with me—the cold water, the snapped washing line, the waiting at the tip, and the quiet company of a robin on a Sunday afternoon.