Snow Days Off

The weather has been extraordinary. As such, life in GB has come to a standstill. It’s all about snow and plenty of it. Although it can be lethal, it is beautiful and in my two teenage boys eyes, the stuff of magic. Both Max and Charlie were ecstatic that both their schools were forced to shut for not one, but two days. You have to admit in a Child’s eye that’s pure heaven. Ten inches of snow & no school!
The joy for me soon passed. Yes, I did delight in a long walk with Charlie down at ‘the swamp’ (local brook running for half a mile surrounded by mini woodland, a surprise oasis in North London). And it was sweet to see the boys crashing about in the garden, flinging snowballs at one another and squealing with anguish and delight. But then I got frustrated. We couldn’t get out because the snow turned to ice and I didn’t fancy a trip to A& E. The mail, the refuse collection, the recycling collection, all stopped, I started to go stir crazy. But not my boys. They relished their time at home, being more than happy to ‘chill’ and do absolutely nothing, popping in and out of their own little worlds for food and drink.
Day three arrived and the schools re-opened. Charlie, although reluctant, returned to his school with good grace, Max on the other hand was having none of it. I could tell he was disgusted that his school was open for business, plus I’d heard him muttering in the toilet that perhaps a new arrival of deep snow in the night might do the trick and force his school to remain closed. This had not transpired and as his bus arrived to collect him bang on time, Max left with a face full of thunder.
Just a few hours later we got a call from Max’s school. Max had diarrhoea and would like to come home. A rather graphic conversation then took place; I shan’t go into too much detail here, suffice to say it involved conditions of unflushed toilets and changes of clothing. Max can be highly creative and is pretty savvy when it comes to convincing anyone of his fake ill health. His professional and impressive teachers can end up bearing the brunt of it; even so, it pays to be deeply sceptical to the point of blunt disbelief. That takes quite a bit of determined, perhaps brave grit; Paul and I wobble at the first call of doubt. Neither of us wants to appear to be cold uncaring, almost cruel parents, but Max is a magnificent actor.
We stuck to our guns and arranged to pick him up and take him as normal to his regular pre-arranged literacy lesson with Julia. Unfortunate timing as it was going to prove a challenge to get him back to school. When I picked him up he was cheerful enough, if in an extraordinarily tight pair of trousers. (Max’s XL waist can lead to limited resources when a spare item of clothing is required.) Still, nothing was said and a clean set of clothes was left with his classroom assistant. Thinking on my feet and desperately trying to be one step ahead of my son I welcomed him back to the car after his lesson and presented him with a tricky decision. I suggested that if his stomach pains (putting aside the tight trousers) were still a problem, we should return home, missing afternoon school. But that would mean no lunch, perhaps a dry cracker, but nothing more. Or, if he felt his stomach was in any way better, we could return to school, change his trousers and he could eat his lunch.
Max was not remotely amused. We suffered a silent five minutes. It was all I could do to remain quiet; I literally had hold of my tongue between my teeth. Eventually, with very little grace, Max decided to return to school. He ate his sandwiches while parked outside the school and for an awful moment, after he’d polished them off, I thought he was going to renege on our deal. But, true to his word he finished his lunch, got out the car, and poignantly slammed the door. I got no ‘goodbye’ and he deliberately ignored my wave as he begrudgingly buzzed himself into the school via the electronic gates. He does enjoy school – he’d just rather be at home. In some ways I felt I’d done the right thing. I’d shown him that he couldn’t pull the wool over my eyes and that he had to go to school, everyday. Even if he experienced an explosional bowel movement (his low muscle tone, makes it not uncommon for him). Coming home when he felt like it couldn’t be an option. But I also had a vague uneasiness about the whole thing. Say I was wrong?