It’s the last day of term, and I’m absolutely determined that this time, homework is not I repeat, not going to be left until the last minute. So the dialogue unfolds somewhat like this:
Mum: “Now love, you know you’ve got a fair bit of homework for the holidays. Let’s pace it, and work out a plan.”
Daughter: “Muuummm. Can’t I at least have one day off??!?!”
Mum (weakly): “Well, one day won’t do any harm I suppose…”
Fast track two weeks to the – oh yes, you guessed it – the last day of the holidays:
Mum: “WHAT do you mean you haven’t started your homework?? You’ve got to be kidding me. How many times have I told you to get cracking on it?”
Daughter (sobbing weakly): “I’m sorry…I meant to do it….I really did.”
An enquiry results in the admission that the homework for the next 24 hours includes, (but is not limited to, as they say) a five-page treatise on teenage, diet, health and fitness; an eight-page science booklet on matter, learning an entire song for the keyboard, a project on the first Olympics, and maths revision. (Both our favourites, that one. LOL. I like her maths teacher though. He rashly suggested to me that anybody could do maths. I didn’t dare tell him I got 1% in my last maths exam and that was for spelling my name right.)
I’ve got some wonderful homework memories stored up over the years. There was my then ten-year-old step son’s announcement that he had to make a diorama of an entire AFL team by the following morning, complete with snowy landscapes, and tiny footballs, and my son’s apparent inability to complete any project if it didn’t have a horse in it – we even managed to base a behavioural study for science, on you guessed it, the behaviour of horses. There’s been making models out of lego at midnight, creating collages of the galaxy in several hours flat, speeches started and written in an hour before breakfast – and in between all these of course there’s the wonderful book week which can sneak up on you once a year with apparently no notice – a costume? Really? Here, take these old kitchen roll holders, paint them and well, be – I don’t know a teapot?? No? Oh. I’ve baked and sewn and painted and written and cut and stuck and drawn and more recently googled, designed, photo-shopped and drop-boxed. And I am proud to admit that I usually get very good grades for my homework. (Oops, did I really say that? I mean, she usually gets very good grades for her homework)
With the impeccable timing of children, this particular not-done homework is coinciding with my first overseas trip for over two years, which is also, as it happens – work. Not that parental work counts for much where children are concerned, but even my daughter can see that I’m suffering under the burden. So much so that she cooks dinner – gnocchi, and, I have to say, an amazing salad full of good things, designed to calm me down.
It sort of works. We sort of get through it. I sort of pack.
She looks at me with her big blue eyes. “I absolutely promise I’ll never do it again, mummy,” she says. “Next time I’ll do all my homework in the first few days of the holidays.”
I give her a big hug. “Of course you will darling,” I say, with my fingers crossed behind my back. “Of course you will.”
