The summer holidays. Or ‘an extended period of leisure and recreation’, according to one online dictionary. Funny. No, stop, really, my sides hurt. Actually, that may well be down to wine-induced kidney ache, but I digress.
Six and a half weeks. Forty five days. I am not saying I am counting them down, but there are tally marks being scratched into the wall next to my bed. However, my five year old is not spending the whole time at home. Good god, no. I am not clinically insane. I have traded insanity for an overdraft, as we shell out for activity camps, tennis camps, football camps… anything to a) get him out of the house for a large proportion of the day and b) wear him out.
But I have conceded a couple of weeks where nothing official is planned, and so I am desperately trading children back and forth in a series of play dates. At times, I feel I should be running a clocking in and out system next to our front door just so that I can keep track.
Which is therefore why I have spent more time than strictly necessary (or desired) in the company of five year old boys. It has not been altogether an edifying experience, it has to be said. And as I collapse into bed of an evening, exhausted and with barely the strength to switch my Kindle on, my brain can’t help itself but to subject me to some kind of edited highlights package…
- Whilst eating lunch, a boy asking my son if he want to see his winkle, to which my son nods enthusiastically and leans over to get a better view.
- A brief monologue from a boy as to why kissing his brother does not make him gay, but kissing my son would. At this juncture, I offer him another piece of garlic bread and hope he does not suggest a practical demonstration. Not until we have finished our salmon pasta, at least.
- Repeated exclamations of “BOO-YA!” at any given opportunity. I have no idea where this delightful turn of triumphalist phrase comes from, and I am sure, neither do they.
- Entering my son’s bedroom to be confronted by three boys, stark bloody naked, bouncing up and down on the bunk bed. My first thought is, surprisingly: ‘if they knew how cheap that bed was, they would not be doing that’, swiftly followed by ‘I am not sure I am liking this CBeebies reinterpretation of Brokeback mountain’.
- The look of astonishment, then horror, on a boy’s face when I tell him we don’t watch television during the day. To which he replies ‘why?’ and I fail miserably to provide a convincing response. Fast forward twenty minutes, after prolonged yelling and trashing of play room, and I am reconsidering the error of my ways.
- Repeated requests from any house guest under four foot to get naked.
- The sound of a five kilogram box of assorted Lego being tipped out onto the floor. Again.
- The sound of my life force dripping out of every orifice as there is yet another argument over who can jump the highest.
- Interrupting an utterly hilarious game of ‘let’s throw Lego bricks out of the window’. Well, to clarify, only two out of three of us found this amusing.
- The most utterances of ‘bum’, ‘bottom’ and ‘willy’ I have ever encountered. And I hang out with people who say these words a lot.
Well, the dictionary got one bit right about the definition of summer holiday: it is an extended period. We are only on week three, and as I squint hard into the future, I still can’t see the end of the bloody summer holiday tunnel. Oh, hang on… I can see a chink of light… oh, my mistake, it’s just the sunlight reflecting off the puddle of orange squash that has mysteriously appeared on the lounge floor. BOO YA!