The bittersweet reality of holiday homework: Finding magic in the chaos
It’s the final days of the school holidays and while I’m mentally preparing to dive back into the madness of early mornings, packed lunches and school runs, there’s one small mountain left to climb: the holiday homework. Why? Why? WHY?!
Look, I get it. I really do. It’s meant to help the child. Keep their minds active. Reinforce what they’ve learned. All that educational good stuff. But… I also have a job. A full-time, real-life, deadlines-don’t-wait job. And my child? He does not want to hear anything about schoolwork in July. At all.
Trying to get him to do homework this past week has felt like negotiating with a tiny, stubborn union leader. “But it’s a holiday, mommy.” And to be honest… he’s not wrong. Holidays are for exploring, sleeping in, messy play, sticky fingers, and spontaneous park adventures. They are not for maths problems, comprehension passages, or writing five sentences about “What I did this holiday.”
I may be sounding dramatic, but if I were six years old, I’d lose my mind too. Imagine being told to solve sums when you could be building forts or watching your favourite cartoons in pyjamas.
But then… something happens. We sit with the booklet me, trying to summon patience from deep within and suddenly, a moment of magic appears. He picks up his pencil. No whining, no groaning. Just… focus. We read the instructions. He gets it.
“Oh this is my favourite, mommy!”(Okay, yes, we did reach this point after some heavy negotiations involving two Fizzer sweets and a promise of one extra hour of screen time. But still.)
And there it is. That small, surprising flicker of proudness. Watching him complete the task without me even needing to explain. Watching him try.
So while I may gripe and groan about the timing, the volume, and the general injustice of holiday homework—maybe, just maybe—it’s not all that bad. I still believe holidays should be for making memories, not memorising timetables… but in between the chaos and sugar-bribed deals, there’s a quiet kind of magic in watching your child grow.
And now, back to page 7… we’ve got a few more to go.
tracy-lynn.ruiters@inl.co.za
Weekend Argus