THIS is usually the time of year I look forward to most. Seasons of mist and mellow fruitfulness beckon and the new school year is about to start. New shoes are in the porch, uniforms are pressed and ready and we have enough pencils and pens to open our own small high street stationer. The schoolbags are packed, lunchbox ingredients are in the fridge and I’m ready for everything to get back to normal. Yes, I’m usually longing for the start of September and the return of routine and tranquillity in the home, at least between the hours of nine and three.

This year was different. Instead of crossing off the last days of August on the kitchen calendar, bemoaning the lego on the floor and the crumbs on the carpet, I found myself wishing for another week. As we lounged in our pyjamas (again), making cheese toasties for lunch (again), I realised I wasn’t ready at all.

In 24 hours I’d be in the swimming pool changing rooms helping my son get ready for his lesson. In 48 hours I’d be driving my son to tennis before driving back to pick up my other son for football before driving back to tennis, then back to football, then on to athletics.

A few days later there would be homework to supervise, music practise to remind about and bedtimes to stick to. The long, lazy summer would be a distant dream.

When my children were one, three, five and seven I longed for an easier time. Next year they’ll be two, four, six and eight, I would tell myself. A year later and we wouldn’t need the travel cot or nappies, a couple more years and the pushchair would no longer need to be squeezed into the boot.

Now they’re 10, 12, 14 and nearly 16. They pack their own bags. They make their own lunch. Sometimes they even make mine. So I’d like to hang around here for a while. I feel I’ve earned it.

I can jump in the car and say “hop in”. I don’t need to strap them in, lift them out or provide toys to keep them quiet on the way.

I can go shopping alone. I can take the escalator instead of the lift. I don’t have to take food supplies or remember not to stray too far from the shops that have toilets.

I’ve spent the last 15 years wishing them on to the next stage. Goodbye nappies, goodbye baby food, goodbye potty. Farewell nursery rhyme car cassette and picture books. So long colouring books and crayons.

In a year they’ll be 11, 13, 15 and 17. A few years after that and they’ll start leaving home.

When they were little I used to love rainy days and an excuse to cuddle up by the fire with a pile of storybooks.

So I found myself at the end of the summer holidays, sitting in the kitchen with them, watching Friends, with a mug of lumpy hot chocolate and a green bun (they’re so independent these days).

I wanted the holidays and the home baking to linger. Just another week or so. Before the madness of school and homework and activities started all over again.

 

WE were on the train to Edinburgh for a couple of days of culture and I was in full-blown Educational Outing mode.

I was looking out of the windows and watching the stunning seascape rattle past.

“Look, you can see the sea!” I exclaimed excitedly.

My sons and their friend lifted their heads reluctantly from the screens of their PSPs and glanced at the window just as a large hill obscured the view. They looked at me, puzzled, before returning to their screens.

As we approached Newcastle station I asked them if they knew the name of the bridge we could see in the distance.

“Humber?” they offered.

“No, that’s another famous northern bridge and it’s also named after the river it crosses, just like this one.

They looked at me blankly. I noticed the other rail passengers squirming in their seats. They knew the answer but were resisting the temptation to shout it out.

“Newcastle upon…?” I suggested helpfully.

“Tyne!” they called out at last and our fellow passengers relaxed back into their seats.

At last we were in Edinburgh and I could continue my Educational Guided Tour.

“Up there is the famous Edinburgh Castle,” I said and the three boys glanced upwards, shuffling their rucksacks on their backs.

I spotted a piper on the opposite side of the road.

“Look! A bagpipe player!” I shouted, pointing enthusiastically across the street at the man in a kilt.

We climbed and climbed before I announced that we had arrived at the castle. They peered through the seating that had been out in place for the Edinburgh Tattoo and managed to catch a glimpse of the ancient building.

“Can we go in?” they asked, beginning to feel slightly interested in their surroundings.

“At those prices? No chance,” I said and began marching along the Royal Mile, stopping from time to time to allow them to enjoy the free street entertainment. The boys were having a competition to see who could collect the most flyers from passing fringe artists.

During the next few hours they were treated to live classical music, drumming, dance, theatre and mime as we wound our way through the cobbled streets. I took a deep breath, felt the warm August sun on my back and thought to myself how much I loved Edinburgh at festival time and how lucky my children were to be steeped in culture.

The main event was the following day. We had tickets to see Anthony Horowitz at the Children’s Book Festival and the boys had their well-read books in their bags in the hope that the creator of boy spy Alex Rider would sign them.

Before that we had time for a trip to the camera obscura (“built in Victorian times as a tourist attraction and with incredible views across Edinburgh”), the National Gallery (“the pillars outside have been transformed into cans of Campbell’s Soup during an exhibition of the work of artist Andy Warhol”), Princes Street Gardens (“they used to be filled with water as part of the castle’s defences”) and Marks and Spencer (nice sandwiches).

Eventually we trudged to Charlotte Square Gardens and the boys sank into their seats at the book festival, glad only that they didn’t have to walk around any more sights and listen to their mother’s dull commentary.

I prodded them periodically during the author’s talk and told them to pay attention. There would be questions afterwards.

Finally we were on the journey home and the boys were looking out of the train window, exhausted.

“It’s dark,” they observed.

I agreed that indeed it was.

“So you won’t be able to spot any bridges or beaches or anything,” they said, smugly pulling out their PSPs and settling down for a quiet trip. 

 

"Well, how does it feel to be coming home from Devon for the last time," I said as we crawled along the M5 homeward bound.
I'd promised myself this would be our last family holiday in Devon after the moans and groans I'd had to suffer in the weeks leading up to it.
Of course, once we were there the children were rockpooling and splashing in the sea together just as they had done every year since they were knee-high to a clam.
So I expected relief when I announced that this would be our very last time in Devon.
"What do you mean last time?" the children chorussed, the boys dragging their eyes from their PSP screens and the girls unplugging their ipod headphones from their ears.
I swivelled round in amazement.
"I thought you didn't like going to Devon?" I asked.
"What made you think that?" said the one who'd told me she'd only go if there was internet access.
"It's actually not been too bad," said the one who'd moaned that everyone else was going abroad.
"I want to come back," said the one who'd asked if the sun would be shining .
"Well I'll come back on my own then!" said the one who'd announced it would be better to stay at home than go on holiday to Devon.
I guess I can't win.

EVERY year we go on holiday to Devon. Every year the kids moan about it. And every year they end up having a wonderful time. So I was prepared for pre-holiday conversation.

Them: “Why do we have to go to Devon AGAIN?”

Me: “You’ll enjoy it when you get there.”

Them: “Is it going to be sunny?”

Me: “How should I know, I’m not Carol Kirkwood.”

Them: “What will we be doing there?”

Me: “What we always do.”

Them: “I’m only going if you take your laptop.”

Me: “There’s no internet connection there.”

Them: “Well I’m only going if I can have an Ipod.”

Me: “No chance.”

Them: “I’ll go if we can stay in a five star hotel.”

Me: “Nope, same cottage as last year.”

And they slope off looking miserable and defeated while I mutter under my breath that I’ll never, ever book a holiday in Devon again.

When we get there I know they’ll run down to the sea as soon as they can. I’m certain they’ll still be as eager as ever to pull out their crab lines and dangle them over the harbour wall. I’m sure they’ll spend hours in the rock shop and come away with a quarter of mint flavour fudge and a pink candy cane.

“It’s the ritual of regular holidays that kids absolutely love,” a friend said as I was bemoaning the fact that my ungrateful children had begun their annual Devon grumblefest.

“Mine like to go to the same café every year and order the same cake to go with their steaming hot chocolate when they come off the beach at the end of the day. They don’t know it until they get there but it’s the familiarity that they enjoy.”

I knew she was right. As soon as mine arrive in Devon they’ll want to go to the shell shop, the ice cream parlour and the cliff top café. They’ll rush to the rock pools and dig out the binoculars to search for seals.

But right now they’re only interested in the fact that their friends are going to Spain, Florida, Italy and other exotic places that don’t begin with D or lie at the end of the M5.

Another friend told me that she recently returned to a favourite childhood haunt and became quite emotional as she revisited the places that held so many memories for her.

“You’ll probably find that in 20 years your kids will be booking holidays to Devon themselves so they can relive their happy holidays,” she reassured me.

Back at home that evening I remembered what my friends had said as my daughter once again told me that she was about to embark on the worst holiday of her life and that other families did exciting things in the summer break.

“You’ll enjoy it when you get there,” I said lamely.

“You think? There’s not even a sandy beach and you can’t even guarantee that it isn’t going to rain all week.”

“You’ll look back on these holidays fondly when you’re older,” I told her warmly, looking for a spark of recognition in her eyes.

Nothing.

“You’ll probably take your children there in years to come and show them your favourite places,” I said to her.

“I might,” she said and my heart lifted.

“But that’d only take a day, not a whole boring week.”

I'm covered in dust and dirt from head to foot.
I've just been to Diggerland with my two boys and we've all come home tired, happy and dirty.
It's not a big place but it's great for kids because they can drive the trucks themselves, scoop dirt and take the controls.
"Boys are definitely natural drivers," my friend said as we watched the lads judder around the fields of mud.
"Don't say that in earshot of my husband," said another friend. "He doesn't need any encouragement to tell me men make better drivers!"
I took a more practical approach. I decided to take the wheel myself and prove her wrong. Within five minutes I'd bumped the digger and almost caused a major pile up.
"It wasn't my fault, it was his!" I said, pointing to my son who was still shaken.
"So how come I managed perfectly well until you came into the field!" he argued back.
Men may not be better natural drivers than women but it seems the age old argument about whether or not they are is destined to continue through the generations.

“EYES!” we all said, pointing to our eyes as we ate breakfast. Tilly pointed to her ears and said, “EYES!” We all laughed and spooned another mouthful of cereal into our mouths.

We worked our way through mouth, nose, teeth and hair before starting on the animal kingdom.

“What does a cat say?” the four adults and two children asked and Tilly obediently made a woofing sound.

All this occurred during a visit to an old school friend and his family last week. He had invited us to stay for a few days with our two boys whilst our teenage daughters were away on an activity holiday in Wales. The entertainment was provided by his daughter, one-year-old Tilly.

Teaching Tilly to talk reminded me of the process I’d been through with each of my four children and I knew that eventually she’d point to her eyes and say “eyes”. I also knew that she’d soon grow out of her two daily naps and learn the word “no”.

“It must be so much easier now yours are older,” our friend commented that evening as we sat down after dinner, Tilly safely tucked up in bed leaving us to enjoy our conversation. I thought about our evenings at home. Toaster popping until 9pm, background music emitting from the bedrooms until 10pm. I thought about sharing this information with the hopeful new parents. I decided against it.

Instead I remembered fondly the early teatimes, the brightly coloured bath toys and the bubble fights I’d had with my young children in the bathroom while their pyjamas were warming on the radiator. I recalled how we would snuggle under the covers together with a book we’d read a hundred times before and recite the pages. 

“It must be great when your children are older and you can communicate with them properly,” said Tilly’s mother, asking for reassurance.

I imagined a scenario where I would point to something, as we had all pointed to our eyes and noses that morning.

“Dishwasher!” I might say and my teenager might repeat the word. We could then go on to plate, glass and dishwasher powder. Then we could go upstairs and I could point to the clothes lying crumpled on the bedroom floor.

“Dirty!” I could say before moving on to point to the linen basket and, if I was feeling brave, the washing machine.

I also imagined what it might be like to communicate freely and easily with my children, using all the words they had been taught so painstakingly over the years.

“Are you going out?” I might ask and the communicative response would be along the lines of: “Yes mum, I’m going to town with Jessica and Karen and then we’re going to watch a film. We’ll be finished at about 4pm and I wondered if it would be possible – only if you have the time of course – for you to collect me from the cinema at 4?”

In reality I knew the conversation would use only a selection of the words taught during childhood and would sound something like this:

“Are you going out?”

“Yeah”

“Who with?”

“Dunno”

“What time will you be back?”

Shoulder shrug.

This would be followed several hours later by a phone call.

“I’m at the cinema and I need picking up. NOW.”

 

Away from my daydreams and back in the cosy lounge of our friends’ home I told these recent parents that it was indeed very nice to be able to communicate.

 

I’VE just spent the last half hour telling my friend I can’t meet her for lunch on Saturday. It’s not that she wouldn’t take no for an answer. It’s because I decided to tell her by text and my texting skills leave a lot to be desired.

Once I’d worked out how to turn off the predictive text I then had to work out how to let her know in less than 20 abbreviated words that on Saturday my son had a party, my daughter needed dropping off at a friend’s and I had an appointment at the hairdresser that I’d forgotten about.

Then, when I was halfway through the mini letter my phone started buzzing and beeping and flashing. A message was coming in. I managed to work out how to abandon my essay to read the incoming text.

“Jst wnt to let u kno we gettin bk early so can u pls come n meet me at lnchtym. Can’t wait to c u. Luv u loads xxxxx”

I may be struggling to keep up with technology, I may yearn for the good old days when communication was as easy as picking up the phone but I appreciated the convenience of text messaging as a way of keeping in touch when my child was abroad.

Throughout the trip he’d kept in constant contact letting me know how he was getting on and telling me affectionately that he missed me.

 “We jus bin owt nd had welgud tym. Missin u love u :) xx”

There were things he could express in a text message that he often couldn’t – or wouldn’t – face to face.

“I thinking abwt u all nd missin u all n hope u missin me too. Love u loads xxxxx

And he could let me know how he was getting on without having to search for a payphone and loose change.

“Hey jus thort id tel u weather SCORCHIN HOT nd so gd here. Wts it lyk there? Love u so much xxx

Of course he could also remind me of the jobs he’d asked me to do while he was away.

“Remember u got to get me photographic paper…thort id remind u cos without a doubt u wud av forgot! Luv u loads xxx”

Yes, the benefits of texting made it worth the time spent mastering the technique but there were still plenty of pitfalls to be overcome. Like the time I wrote a message asking my husband if he wanted to meet me for a drink and sent it to a colleague of the same name. Then there was the time my daughter borrowed her dad’s phone and texted me to say “I love u xx”. She selected Mum from the list of names and pressed send. Except it was her dad’s phone and her dad’s mum. My mother-in-law was delighted that her 30-something son still seemed to care.

As I continued to struggle with my message to the friend I couldn’t meet on Saturday the phone beeped and buzzed again.

“Hey mum we nearly there now, got loads to tell u. Love u xxx”

My son was getting closer and he sounded so loving and chatty. Maybe it was the distance. Maybe it was the fact that things are easier to say in texts than in person.

The phone buzzed and beeped again.

“We gonna be there in 5 mins. Jst make sure u waitin. And DON’T get out of the car or be embarasin or anything.”

It was definitely the distance.

 

I LOOK forward to picking my little boy up from school every night. My soon-to-be-ten son is growing up fast but he’s still my baby, the youngest in the family.

When I pull up in the car outside school I usually spot him running towards me, hair blowing in the wind (still haven’t managed to drag him to the barber’s), full of stories to tell.

Last week was no different. He came bounding towards me, launched his lunchbox and school bag in my direction and, breathlessly, announced that he needed a present.

“A big one!” he declared as he settled himself down in the car.

I looked across at him, puzzled, and he delved into his school bag to retrieve a large brown envelope.

“It’s my report and it’s a good one,” he explained.

I looked down at the envelope and noticed that it had been opened already and carefully resealed.

“Have you opened this?” I asked.

“Yeah, we’re allowed,” he lied casually.

I glanced across at him. He shuffled in his seat.

“Well, she said we could if we wanted,” he said quietly.

I looked at him again.

“Well,” he began. “She didn’t actually say that but I knew you wouldn’t mind.”

So I re-opened the envelope and pulled out the paperwork, only to have it snatched from my fingers immediately.

“You drive, I’ll read it to you!” he ordered. Like I say, he’s my baby. A little over-indulged maybe but full of confidence.

“Good listening skills…. Work neatly presented…. Reads fluently…..” he rattled off the teacher’s comments as I negotiated the traffic.

“Able to produce good factual knowledge on the Vikings,” he said. I was impressed.

“His representation of Rangoli was colourful and eye-catching,” he continued. I tried to look as if I understood.

“Fully participated in Caribbean style music,” he added. I began to wish I was back at school myself.

My school reports used to be a list of comments about maths and language. I could always have done better but my effort had been recognised. I was always a bit of a daydreamer but my grades were okay.

This report that my youngest child held in his hands was not a comment on his ability or lack of it. This was a celebration of his wide-ranging education, a glimpse into the wonderful world of learning he had been enjoying.

“I didn’t know you’d been learning so many different things,” I said as he finally came to the end of his list of achievements.

“Oh yes, we’ve done the Vikings, the Indian art stuff, all that music stuff, the sport, those science experiments, stuff on the computers, and loads of other stuff. We’ve even done sewing.”

So much stuff. So much interesting stuff. So much fun stuff.

“It must have been really exhausting working so hard,” I said, thinking aloud.

“Not really,” he shrugged. “Didn’t really feel like work.”

I was impressed and delighted. I was proud and amazed. We were almost home and I was glowing with satisfaction.

“So about that present,” he said as we pulled into the drive, wiping the smile from my face.

“You can see why it needs to be something pretty big, can’t you?” he continued, looking me straight in the eye.