Mother Ireland

It’s been a tough couple of months. There were many dark, dark days.
There were times we thought we wouldn’t make it through, times we teetered on the brink of insanity, times when we prayed the good Lord himself would come and end our unbearable suffering. But we’re feeling much better now the schools are back.
I’m not too old to remember the dread I felt as the end of summer loomed and we had to go back to school. It used to really annoy the younger me to see ‘back-to-school’ offers in shops in July, taunting students trying to enjoy their holidays.
This summer I frequently fell dramatically to my knees before those same signs in prayer to the patron saint of time and space continuum (Saint Bernard I think). I would loudly beseech him to find it in his heart to skip over a few days in August so that the calendar pinned on my kitchen wall would read August 1st, 2nd, 3rd and then skip to the 31st, which has “Kids back at School. Alleluia!!” written in big red letters all over it.
Call me a miserabilist but I would have gladly – if this was the level of sacrifice required by Catriona Ruane and our education department for such a mammoth ask – give my actual right arm to make the summer holidays shorter. Would it make a difference Catriona? Would the inclusion of, say, a kidney persuade you any? I’m thinking a long weekend in July or maybe just a week in August.
My sons, however, do not share my extreme views on summer.
My oldest was not exactly relishing his return to school. On the morning of the big day we found his lovely new sensible school shoes lodged in the guttering outside his bedroom window. As they were filled to capacity with rain, he had to see in the new term wearing his battered old trainers. Best, not soggy, foot forward I thought.
The thought of eventually having a full 30 minutes of peace and tranquillity to perhaps read a week-old paper or actually watch a programme not hosted by a large and annoyingly cheery purple dinosaur was all that got me through those nightmare summer months.
I had thought that it might be a good idea to camp outside the school on the eve of their return, just in case we might be late and have to spend even a second of official school time still in each other’s company. The husband thought this might make us look like bad parents. But judging by the mums and dads practically galloping into school with their children underarm we weren’t the only ones who were relieved to see September.
Happy holidays? I say ban them.