School is almost over people. The part of me that loves sleeping in and detests asking WhatsApp groups every day at 5pm with false cheerfulness ‘Hey guys!!! Any homework today?’ followed by a slew of cute emojis rejoices at this, the sane part of me asks ‘Well what the hell are we supposed to do with them for six weeks?’
Since my children’s school only sets exams from grade 6, the last month of school is devoid of stress and tension. For the primary school it’s a fun time of inter-house sports matches, project presentations and what my generation called time pass. Every year around now, my brain checks out of the school circus. I no longer care about homework and projects and plastic boxes to be sent to school for making polar ice stations.
I become a benign smiling creature who cheerfully waves her kids off to school with a ‘HAVE FUN Today’ instead of the usual ‘I’ve written bring your homework backwards in permanent ink on your forehead. Remember to look at yourself in the mirror in the bathroom today.’ I say ‘Sure! Watch a double episode of Dr Who back-to-back.’ Who cares about schedules? I am my children’s favorite parent. The one they wish existed all year round. Though it may appear that I’m in some kind of zombie-mom-mode there is one thing I keep an eagle eye out for is class party announcements.
Class parties are something fairly new. They’re an end-of-year-celebration and probably just an excuse to fill those empty hours on the last working day of school. Each child offers to bring something to eat or drink. My children have been instructed since nursery to offer only one of three things : PLATES, cups and napkins. I’m happy to throw in some good vibes for free. If pushed juice boxes, I will agree to. But it ends there. That’s the hard stop. I don’t want to wake up at 4am and bake 30 mini pizzas. Or make pasta. Or cupcakes. Or anything. I would like to wake at my usual time and hand the children a small cloth bag with some cutlery and say ‘Have fun at your class party’.
At times, however, my children rebel. They offer to make onion soup for the French Cafe. This resulted in googling le easy + peasy + onion + soup + from ze France. This further resulted in standing over a soup pot for an hour stirring at an increasingly vomitous black looking concoction. No children fell sick after consuming the said soup. But I can only think of the two episodes of Schitts Creek I could have watched in that time.
My children have come to accept their lot in life. Their mother will never fashion small race cars from pieces of fruit or make pancakes for the class with caricatures of Imagine Dragon band members fashioned with Nutella. She excels at paper bags, plates, napkins and juice boxes. Anything beyond that and you end up with a pot of what the French call Merde. Google it.