Hear that noise? That’s the unique sound of the final school bell and parents across the nation suppressing a panicked yelp.
Or is that just me?
Yep, school’s out and my boys are about as calm as hyperactive chickens on a sugar rush.
Six weeks. Forty-two days. Deduct eight hours for sleeping and that leaves 672 hours to fill with productive activities. Sorry, I had to put my head between my knees until the urge to faint passed.
On the plus side, husband and I don’t have to negotiate the annual trip to Divorce Threats Central as we attempt to pack and plan for a fortnight’s jaunt to the sun. The combination of looming deadlines and a hugely expensive house flood has ruled out a summer holiday, so we’re staying put.
But that doesn’t mean that I don’t have plans to fill those 672 hours. Oh, the things we’re going to do. There are going to be so many jolly japes that me and the two junior Lows will feel like we’ve come straight from an Enid Blyton adventure… If Enid was a United Nations negotiator with special skills in tactical operations. You see, we already have a disparity on the logistics front.
I love my children more than words and, given the choice, I’d rather spend the day with them than absolutely anyone else – with the possible exception of a lingering fantasy involving George Clooney, free designer shoes and a donut shop. Don’t ask.
But this year, at the ages of eight and nine, they’ve discovered that dreaded, terrifying new feature: their own opinion.
Where did my boys acquire those? And how do I send them back for a full refund?
I had it all worked out. In the next 672 hours I was going to bake cakes, play footie in the garden, have picnics in the park, go for long bike rides, paint, read books, and listen to them practising their piano and guitar. They finished school as normal boys, they’ll restart in August as McFly.
Oh, and since I am late on a deadline, I also need to fit in writing a new novel and practising my very best martyr face so that I can appear suitably miffed when husband waltzes off to the office every day, leaving me to juggle working from home with full-time motherhood. No, he doesn’t care, but I persevere on the off-chance that he’ll notice and I can use it as bargaining power at a future date. I’m not proud.
But back to my plans. Unfortunately, the small Lows have different ideas.
Low the Elder wants to go go-carting (saw it in an advert), try rope climbing (saw it in an advert), visit Pontins (saw it in an advert) and journey to Atlantis in Dubai. Yep, he saw it in an advert. Note to self: make addition to summer task list – stop son watching adverts.
I approached my malleable, placid, easy-going Low the Younger in the hope of gaining an ally on the walking/reading/picnic front. ‘What would you like to do this summer, honey?’ I asked.
‘Watch telly.’
‘And…?’
‘Nothing else. Just watch telly.’
I’ve a feeling there could be tears, tantrums and snot. And the boys might react badly, too. Still, I’m convinced that my parenting skills will win out and accomplish my mission to have an Enid Blyton experience. Once there were the Famous Five. Then came the Secret Seven. Welcome to the Summer Adventures of the Temperamental Three.