As we find ourselves heading into the fleshy part of the school summer holidays, that dreaded feeling has already set in. No, it’s not cabin fever nor is it a yearning for the days when a summer holiday was exactly that – a holiday and a child-free one to boot. What is it then? It’s the feeling of guilt that you should be out of the house doing something with your kids.
Despite having just returned from Disneyland Paris, our first plan-free day has put me in a tailspin. We’ve worn ourselves out chasing Mickey and what we really need is a day at home with our feet up and perhaps – dare I say it? – the telly on. But unforgiving Facebook and punishing Twitter have warned me that other people are out showing their kids a good time. Eek. I’ve just sat my two down on the sofa under a duvet with their breakfast and Disney Jr. I’ve put a load of washing on and run a deep clean on the dishwasher. But, do you know what? We’re all content and satisfied (apart from the 3-year-old complaining about two Doc McStuffins in a row).
My kids aren’t the going out types. When I ask them what they want to do, more often than not they’ll squeal “stay at home”. Imagine that accompanied by a whoop of joy and a fist pump and you’ll have a picture of how excited they get at the prospect of actually playing with their toys. They’re quite happy (I think) not to be dragged hither and thither. Throw open the doors on a hot, sunny day and you’ll most likely find them indoors stretched out on the floor with their heads in colouring books. I’ve read a lot of brilliant articles about the importance of letting your children be bored so why do I feel like I’m doing them long-term harm? And why does it make me feel so darned lazy?
I know that people aren’t out with their kids every day. I’m by no means critical of parents who have their holiday activities planned down to the last second – I’m jealous of them. I’m as keen as anyone to get out and about, especially as it can make for a more stress-free day. Crumbs on someone else’s floor; the great outdoors to absorb the high decibel output of a 3-year-old that otherwise shakes the windows at home; and perhaps, if you’re lucky, the kids will fall asleep in the car on the way home (without having been sick over the car seat first).
Balance is what I’m after. But on days at home I just can’t escape the feeling of guilt. It’s not as if I’m using the time to put my feet up. If it’s anything like a normal day, I’ll be fixing legs back on dinosaurs, sweeping up glitter, refereeing an argument or being forewarned there’s a poo on the way every five minutes. Guaranteed at the end of the day I’ll be ready to run out of the door roaring and baring my chest.
On the flipside of all the guilt, a day at home has its advantages. Dishwashers get cleaned, kids discover old favourites in the depths of the toybox and I get to drink vulgar amounts of tea without worrying about having to use the Potette on a public highway. Maybe there is some rest for the wicked parents after all.