Cork mum: ‘I’m ready for September ...but not ready for summer to end’

I’m ready for September. There. I’ve said it.

I’m ready for school uniforms, lunchboxes, alarm clocks and somebody telling me what day of the week it is.

I’m ready for bedtime to happen at a vaguely appropriate hour. I’m ready for the wet towels to stop appearing on bedroom floors.

I’m even ready for homework. Well, let’s not get carried away.

But I’m not ready for summer to end. Because what a summer it has been. The weather has been so good that, for weeks, it has felt as though somebody accidentally moved Ireland to Spain and forgot to tell us.

And with the sunshine comes the daily battle. Sunscreen.

“Have you put sunscreen on?” “Yes.” “Properly?” “Yes.” “Are you sure?” “Yes!” “Let me see.” “MUM! I HAVE IT ON!” Technically, yes.

There is sunscreen on one knee, half a shin, and what appears to be a large white handprint across one shoulder. The rest of the body has apparently been left to fend for itself. The back of the neck? Nothing. The tops of the shoulders? Nothing. That tiny strip across the back which will inevitably be bright red by teatime? Completely untouched.

And somehow the sunscreen they have actually used has been smeared all over their legs like they’ve been involved in a small-scale industrial accident. You nearly have to smell them. “Come here.” “I have sunscreen on!” “I know. I just need to smell you.” Every parent knows that distinctive sunscreen smell. If I can’t smell it from three feet away, I’m not convinced.

Then there’s the hat. “Where’s your hat?” “I don’t need it.” “You absolutely need it.” “I’ll be fine.” This is a child who will happily wear a hoodie when it’s 23 degrees, but asking them to put on a hat in blazing sunshine is apparently an attack on their human rights.

And yet, underneath all the sunscreen, hats and parental nagging, this summer has been wonderful.

Because the children have had time.

Time to sleep. Time to wake when their bodies tell them they’re ready rather than when an alarm clock rudely announces that civilisation has begun. Time to meet friends. Time to see cousins. Time to sit outside until late. Time to be bored. And time to make their own fun.

Give pre-teens and a teen a plastic sheet, some water, washing up liquid and a questionable amount of enthusiasm and suddenly you’ve got a waterslide that would have a health and safety inspector reaching for the smelling salts. No booking required. No €300 family ticket. Just a garden, a few friends and an idea that should probably have been run past an adult.

Then there’s football. The garden is apparently the perfect place to play, except for the small matter of the house being attached to it. “Stop kicking the ball against the windows!” “We’re not!” Bang. “I heard that!” “Sorry!” Bang. At some point you realise you’re no longer the parent. You’re the unpaid groundskeeper of a football stadium.

But they’re having the time of their lives.

And that’s what I’ve loved watching this summer.

The laughing. The messing. The complete lack of necessity for anything fancy.

Of course, there are wonderful places you can take children. There are holidays, theme parks, camps and big days that give families memories they’ll treasure.

But sometimes the best days cost almost nothing.

A group of cousins. A gang of friends. The beach. A pile of snacks. A few bottles of something cold. And a couple of euro in somebody’s pocket. They’ll spend their money on sweets or ice creams and then sit together sharing them as if they’ve discovered the finest restaurant in Europe. Someone gets an ice cream. Someone wants something else. Someone has spent their last €2 on sweets. Nobody has enough money left for anything sensible. And nobody cares. They’re sitting together in the sunshine, laughing at something that makes absolutely no sense to the adults nearby.

And you look at them and think: This is it. This is the stuff they’ll remember. Not necessarily the €200 or €300 day out. Not the perfect itinerary. Not whether every week was packed with activities. But sitting with their friends eating ice cream. Getting soaked with water. Kicking a football around until somebody nearly loses a window. Spending an afternoon doing absolutely nothing and somehow having the best time.

Maybe that’s why it has felt so nostalgic. Because every now and then, I catch a glimpse of the childhood I re ember. We went outside. We found our friends. We knocked on doors. We made up games. We stayed out until somebody shouted our name from the back garden. We got filthy. We got hungry. We probably got sunburnt because, thankfully, our mothers didn’t have the ability to monitor our SPF application from the kitchen window.

We didn’t need an adult to organise the fun. We had time. We had imagination. We had other children. And somehow, that was enough.

We spend so much time now trying to give our children more. More activities. More experiences. More entertainment. More opportunities. And sometimes I think we forget how much children can do with less. Give them a bit of space, and they’ll fill it. Give them their friends and they’ll entertain themselves for hours. And sometimes they’ll even surprise you with what they come up with.

Like a sleepover. You think they’ve gone to bed. You finally sit down. The house is quiet. Bliss. Then you hear whispering. Footsteps. Giggling.

You creep downstairs and find them sitting in the dark watching a movie, eating snacks they were definitely told not to bring downstairs. They look at you. You look at them. “Weren’t you supposed to be asleep?” “Yes.” “And?” “We were going to.” Of course they were.

And then, inevitably, someone will come into the kitchen. Usually hungry. They’ll open the fridge. They’ll stare. They’ll move things around. They’ll look behind the milk. They’ll inspect every shelf. This will be despite the fact that I did a full shop yesterday and everything is neatly washed, chopped, portioned and packed into containers. There is fruit. There is yoghurt. There is cheese. There is chicken. There is bread. There are leftovers. There are snacks. There is enough food in there to feed a small wedding. But they can see vegetables Therefore: There is nothing to eat.

“There’s literally nothing in the house.” “There’s an entire fridge full of food.” “But there’s nothing nice.” And “something sweet” doesn’t mean one sweet. It means enough sweets and treats to make you wonder whether you’ve accidentally opened a confectionery.

“What can I have?” “You have loads of snacks.” “But I want something sweet.” “You have sweets.” “But what else?” The fridge door closes.

Seven minutes later, it opens again. Perhaps something new has appeared. This, apparently, is what summer does to teenagers. It turns them into part-time sun worshippers and full-time food critics. And I wouldn’t change it. Because by August, we’re beginning to feel the pull of routine and I’m not going to pretend I’m not looking forward to it.

I’m ready to know what day it is again. I’m ready for normal bedtimes. I’m ready for breakfast to happen before lunchtime. I’m ready for the fridge door to get a rest.

But then I think about what’s coming. The uniforms will go on. The alarm clocks will start The garden will get quieter. The long evenings will become short ones.

And that’s when I’ll realise how much I’ll miss it. I’ll miss the friends coming and going. I’ll miss the cousins. I’ll miss the laughter from the garden. I’ll miss seeing them create their own fun. I’ll miss the ice creams. I’ll miss the silly games. I’ll miss the long evenings when nobody had anywhere they needed to be. I’ll even miss the constant sunscreen arguments. Actually, let’s not get carried away. I will not miss those.

But I think I’ll miss this version of them. The version that can spend an entire afternoon doing something completely pointless and have the time of their lives. Maybe that’s the real magic of summer.

So, yes, I’m ready for September. I’m ready for routine. I’m ready for school. I’m ready for everybody to know what day it is again.

But if someone could give us a few more days of this sunshine first, I’d be very grateful.

I’ll provide the sunscreen. I’ll provide the hats. I’ll provide the snacks. They just need to actually put the sunscreen on. And preferably leave some food in the fridge.