It’s the last day of half term, so time for homework to raise its ugly head. Of course, I’d like to have seen it happen on the first day, or even the weekend before half term started as I fondly imagine the pleasure that would bring: knowing everything has been done.
Pleasure to me that is. The boys don’t give two hoots – just like I didn’t when I was their age. I think I'd done a couple of years of university before I saw learning and essays as a pleasure, rather than a chore to be prevaricated.
10am
Me: Time to get your homework started
Jamie: In a bit
Midday
Me: Homework Jamie
Jamie: Once I’ve done this
2pm
Me: Have you started yet?
Jamie: Just checking what I’ve got
4pm
Me: Now!
Jamie: Okay – no need to nag
I’m at that stage where you fear your teenager will never master the basics he needs to get through life, from cleaning teeth to comprehensible speech. On a bad day, remembering to flush the loo is an issue, so maybe I am being unreasonable expecting homework too.
The boys’ delight in each other’s misdemeanours doesn’t help. If one is being told off, the other either wants to know the gory extent of the crime, or joins in on my bad cop side. I’d prefer them to stick up for each other, not revel in moral superiority.
Still, I do remember those far away days when they used to tell each other of their mutual love. I hope they'll remember that when they no longer share a roof. It's got to be more important than homework and unlike Latin, should last them a lifetime.
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