How I used to hate that phrase when I was teaching! It seemed that scarcely before you'd waved the little darlings off on their summer holidays (and heaved a huge sigh of relief that one of your colleagues would have the benefit of educating psychopathic Johnny or precociously obnoxious Joan next term), the signs would go up in the Woolies window: 'Back to School!' The shelves would fill with cheap pens, pencils, maths sets and calculators, and suddenly the six glorious empty weeks in front of you seemed less of an eternity, more a few seconds' respite from the chalk face.
Later, of course, when I became a parent of school-age children, 'Back to School' became a promise rather than a threat. Dearly though I love my boys, when they were younger keeping them from murdering each other was a constant task, made worse by the long, unregulated days of the summer holidays. I've never been one of those mums who thinks her children need to be busy, busy, busy all day long - French after school, gym on Friday, tennis at the weekend, charts and structure and educational 'play'. Much of my own free time as a child had been just that - free, freedom to read or walk or draw or just dream without adults poking their noses in - and one of the reasons for moving to the country had been to give our children the sort of childhood where they could go out on their bikes, meet friends, explore, build dens or dams and generally (in a phrase not current when I was ten or eleven) 'chill out'. However, no responsible parent, however relaxed, is going to allow a six or seven year old out alone and unsupervised, and I was no exception. So they were confined to the garden, and all too often my parental role became that of referee, when I was not in goal, fielding, or suggesting that the Lego which seemed to spread of its own accord all over the house should be put back in its box before it was lost, or maimed someone unwary enough to tread on a piece barefoot.
By design, our summer holidays were carefully broken up: a week away (the Forest of Dean, Wales, Devon, Cornwall and Swanage all feature heavily in our holiday snaps), plus five days or so visiting Granny and Grandad in Suffolk. There were huge advantages to this: it was free, in the lovely setting of my own childhood, there was a pool, tennis courts, cricket pitches, even an assault course, and the whole park with its woods and grounds to explore. The downside was that my parents, well into their seventies when the boys were born, were not used to their boisterous behaviour and still less to the four-letter words which every modern schoolchild knows from Reception onwards. Despite drumming into them at every visit the importance of behaving nicely and not swearing, one or two choice epithets did emerge, and Dad in particular was worried by Patrick's temper and Hugh's cheek. I was always sorry to leave - when your parents are elderly, you always wonder if that's the last time you'll see one of them - but at the same time relieved that we were going home where the boys could let off steam without causing tension. Mind you, when I think back to what my sister and I did to each other - she broke my finger stamping on it, I punched one of her wobbly teeth down her throat and put a spider in her hair (she's arachnophobic) - Hugh's and Patrick's spats seem mild by comparison. We ended up good friends, and I'm pleased to report that my own lads have done the same. Although the three years between them mean they don't go out much together, they talk enthusiastically about bands, music and sport, and I can't remember the last time they had a serious argument (touch wood!).
Those six weeks always seemed to go on for ever, until at last the great day arrived: the alarm set, the uniforms ready, holiday work collected, and off we would go. When they were still at the primary school, there would be the pleasure, for me, of chatting to the other mums, finding out what everyone had been doing, hearing news, exchanging opinions and gossip. My social life always leapt up in September, as our breakfast group started again, and people who'd been away for much of the summer returned to our orbit. Between the hours of nine and three, every weekday, my time was suddenly my own, to write, do my pottery class, seeing friends, shopping forays to Bath or even London. 'Back to School' meant parental freedom, and after an exhausting summer it was very, very welcome.
Strange, after nearly fifteen years of slavery to the academic year, that it won't be long now until 'Back to School' no longer resonates in our household. Hugh is off to Uni in a few weeks, Patrick is just starting in the sixth form. I'll miss the days of their childhood, I love having them around, but there's one thing I'll be looking forward to this autumn when they've both gone 'Back to School' - at last, unrestricted access to my laptop!
Later, of course, when I became a parent of school-age children, 'Back to School' became a promise rather than a threat. Dearly though I love my boys, when they were younger keeping them from murdering each other was a constant task, made worse by the long, unregulated days of the summer holidays. I've never been one of those mums who thinks her children need to be busy, busy, busy all day long - French after school, gym on Friday, tennis at the weekend, charts and structure and educational 'play'. Much of my own free time as a child had been just that - free, freedom to read or walk or draw or just dream without adults poking their noses in - and one of the reasons for moving to the country had been to give our children the sort of childhood where they could go out on their bikes, meet friends, explore, build dens or dams and generally (in a phrase not current when I was ten or eleven) 'chill out'. However, no responsible parent, however relaxed, is going to allow a six or seven year old out alone and unsupervised, and I was no exception. So they were confined to the garden, and all too often my parental role became that of referee, when I was not in goal, fielding, or suggesting that the Lego which seemed to spread of its own accord all over the house should be put back in its box before it was lost, or maimed someone unwary enough to tread on a piece barefoot.
By design, our summer holidays were carefully broken up: a week away (the Forest of Dean, Wales, Devon, Cornwall and Swanage all feature heavily in our holiday snaps), plus five days or so visiting Granny and Grandad in Suffolk. There were huge advantages to this: it was free, in the lovely setting of my own childhood, there was a pool, tennis courts, cricket pitches, even an assault course, and the whole park with its woods and grounds to explore. The downside was that my parents, well into their seventies when the boys were born, were not used to their boisterous behaviour and still less to the four-letter words which every modern schoolchild knows from Reception onwards. Despite drumming into them at every visit the importance of behaving nicely and not swearing, one or two choice epithets did emerge, and Dad in particular was worried by Patrick's temper and Hugh's cheek. I was always sorry to leave - when your parents are elderly, you always wonder if that's the last time you'll see one of them - but at the same time relieved that we were going home where the boys could let off steam without causing tension. Mind you, when I think back to what my sister and I did to each other - she broke my finger stamping on it, I punched one of her wobbly teeth down her throat and put a spider in her hair (she's arachnophobic) - Hugh's and Patrick's spats seem mild by comparison. We ended up good friends, and I'm pleased to report that my own lads have done the same. Although the three years between them mean they don't go out much together, they talk enthusiastically about bands, music and sport, and I can't remember the last time they had a serious argument (touch wood!).
Those six weeks always seemed to go on for ever, until at last the great day arrived: the alarm set, the uniforms ready, holiday work collected, and off we would go. When they were still at the primary school, there would be the pleasure, for me, of chatting to the other mums, finding out what everyone had been doing, hearing news, exchanging opinions and gossip. My social life always leapt up in September, as our breakfast group started again, and people who'd been away for much of the summer returned to our orbit. Between the hours of nine and three, every weekday, my time was suddenly my own, to write, do my pottery class, seeing friends, shopping forays to Bath or even London. 'Back to School' meant parental freedom, and after an exhausting summer it was very, very welcome.
Strange, after nearly fifteen years of slavery to the academic year, that it won't be long now until 'Back to School' no longer resonates in our household. Hugh is off to Uni in a few weeks, Patrick is just starting in the sixth form. I'll miss the days of their childhood, I love having them around, but there's one thing I'll be looking forward to this autumn when they've both gone 'Back to School' - at last, unrestricted access to my laptop!
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