It’s that time of year again – the last frantic day of this year’s school term is almost upon us.
For my oldest, it’s the last day of primary school ever – it seems like just yesterday she was starting on this brand new school adventure; we blinked, and now it’s over. And by ‘we,’ I obviously mean ‘me,’ because the children seem absolutely fine about it, while I’m one leavers’ assembly away from a full emotional collapse in the playground.
July is a trying time for parents and kids alike.
It honestly feels like the school calendar throws up all over the month of July and you’re supposed to smile and make it look effortless while not having brain meltdown from overheating.
School bags have been coming home full of mystery craft projects, artwork and h e a v y schoolbooks, and my inbox has been stuffed full with ‘just a reminder’ emails for the leavers’ assemblies, the end-of-year parties, the end-of-school play, sports day, a trip to Legoland, the school disco, transition days, costume days, and non-uniform days. If I had a pound for every ‘urgent’ Parentmail notification or last-minute beg for cash, I could spend the summer in a quiet villa somewhere far away from school WhatsApp groups.
Then of course there are teacher gifts to buy. Although I mean, I assume their dad sorted these? Oh god, what if we’ve both forgotten? Or what if – even worse – he bought ‘best teacher’ mugs?! I’m sure he didn’t.
But very soon… blessed relief.
The last school bell will ring (metaphorically, we don’t live in an American teen drama), and it’ll all be over for another year.
Only, of course, it won’t, because after all the end-of-term chaos comes the summer holidays!
Six (seven, all in) long weeks of trying to work while my children behave like a pair of semi-feral raccoons who can’t go more than 20 minutes without demanding snacks, screens, or a lift – or shouting at each other. Blissful.
I’ll be working through with the odd day off here and there, because that’s how it is when you’re self-employed and also have a job that doesn’t magically vanish just because the school routine has. When they’re not with their dad and I haven’t wangled annual leave, my kids will be at home, loitering like tiny housemates who contribute nothing, eat whatever is available and complain about everything.
And unlike actual housemates, they don’t even pretend to wash up.
I’ve booked two trips away this year.
First up, my boyfriend and I are going away for a brief, grown-up, child-free weekend city break to Barcelona. It may not be two weeks all inclusive lounging on a sandy beach in Barbados sipping cocktails from a coconut, but I’m still suitably excited. We’ve not been away together before and I think we’ve both earned it.
The flights? Reasonably priced.
The hotel? A bargain.
The dog sitter? More expensive than either, because nothing says ‘relaxing holiday’ like remortgaging your soul to pay for someone else to endure your needy, hairy Labrador for 48 hours.
Then I’ve got a family holiday to look forward to.
After a very last minute trip to a very pleasant Haven Holiday Village in Cornwall last year, the kids were keen to re-live the experience so for 2025 we’re off to a similar park in picturesque Weymouth for five days.
Only this year, it’s not just me and my kids, but also my parents, my sister, her husband, their kid… and the dog.
All nine of us, crammed into a caravan like some sort of experiment in family endurance. I’m thinking of pitching it as a reality show along the lines of ‘Survivor: Weymouth Caravan Edition.’
I’d have loved to leave the dog behind (it’s OK for me to say this, she can’t read), but the cost of a full week in doggy care would have financially finished me off. So she’s coming too. Of course she is.
So – lots to look forward to, but be assured I will not be crafting a magical Pinterest-worthy summer for my children. I will not be creating an itinerary of wholesome family activities and family bonding. I will be doing my absolute best to keep everyone fed, entertained enough not to stage a coup, and alive until normality resumes in September.
Which, thankfully, is only seven weeks away. Not that I’m counting.
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