Welcome to the Easter school holidays. Or as they’re known in this house, The National Fortnight of No, You Can’t Have a Yorkie Egg For Breakfast.
Incidentally, I’ve no idea why the school break didn’t actually encompass the annual celebration this year. I’ve a hunch that the reason our little darlings had to pop back to school for a few days between the holiday weekend and their fortnight off, was due to some kind of marketing collaboration with Scottish Slimmers. I’m admitting nothing, but the evidence does show that, in that period, three of my broods’ eggs mysteriously disappeared, while I gained two pounds.
However, overlooking the bite-sized glitches of scheduling, egg theft and breakfast dietary debates, the Easter holibags have always been my favourite time of the year.
Please note, this excludes the dark events of April 2007, when, desperate to prove to the five- and seven-year-old Junior Lows that I was cool, I careered down our driveway on Low the Younger’s skateboard. Sadly, the equipment wasn’t meant for a woman of the same approximate weight as Kate Moss sitting in a Ford Focus eating a Lindt bunny. I was verging on impressive, when two wheels suddenly snapped off, shot through the glass panel of the front door, and I spent a fortnight in Stookie Central.
That painful flashback aside, the spring break generally brings bring two weeks of release from the school run, without the stresses of Christmas or running up the overdraft on a fortnight in Torremolinos.
It’s a blissful interlude of relaxation during which everything is made better by a stockpile of Rolos.
Until now.
HNC in Parenthood, Module 2,945: The Ambush of Educational Milestones.
Why, oh why, did no-one warn me about the stresses that suddenly descend when your child is facing important exams?
Low the Elder sits his National 5s in May. In the old days, when mullets ruled and I was going to marry the bloke from Spandau Ballet, they were called O Grades.
I vaguely remember them. Studying involved reading Jackie magazine (English), having tea with my granny (history), working out if I had enough money for a packet of Benson & Hedges (maths), exploring my boyfriend’s tonsils (biology) and embracing the entire back catalogue of Heaven 17 (music).
But that was then.
Somehow, now that I’m an MP (Meddling Parent), I’ve become that person that I thought I’d never be: that mother who prints out schedules, researches study methods, and frets over timescales.
All this strain has caused a sudden, yet seismic shift (geography: earthquakes, tectonic plates, natural disasters) in my mothering style.
Gone is the ‘laid-back, let’s do something fun, woo-hoo it’s the holidays’ mum, and in her place is a highly-strung imposter who comes out with phrases like, ‘If you fail to prepare, you prepare to fail.’
‘Do as I say, not as I did.’
And – my toes are curling with shame – ‘You’ll thank me for this one day.’
The irony is that Low the Elder is taking it all in his stride, but I’m having sleepless nights, panicking about the laws of precipitation and 1,000-word discursive essays. Oh, and when I get to the Pearly Gates, Mr Pythagoras had better do a runner before he gets a boot in the hypotenuse.
Son, if you’re reading this, I just want you to know that all that matters is that you do your best. And look on the bright side – you only have to do this once. Meanwhile, I’ve just revised the statistics section of my HNC in Parenthood, and it’s only 732 days until I get to do this all again with your brother.
Pass the Rolos.