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I get twitchy with lethargy after too long in the playground. I refuse to play more than three rounds of Connect 4 in a row with my kids, and absolutely can’t be involved with the Barbies. Perhaps we were all just better at boredom, back then. The nostalgic whitewash of this version overlooks the massive amount of, usually maternal, effort put in to keeping us occupied during those weeks, something I sense most parents can’t or won’t do these days.
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I grew up in the 80’s, but in my memory, these scenes unspool with the sepia-tint of LP Hartley’s The Go-Between, or the movie version of Atonement, or Carson McCullers’ The Member of the Wedding, which was definitely not set in Aylesbury. (OK, this is one that I genuinely worry about. (We definitely did this, but why that should present itself as something wonderful to aspire to, I can’t clearly understand now.) We read books. (Did we though? More than once?) We put on plays (ditto).
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Coverage of Wimbledon had finished by the time the holidays started, and beyond a few baby TV programmes in the morning and a couple of shows for older kids in the late afternoon, we were left – in a phrase I’ve unironically used on my unimpressed children – “to make our own entertainment”. We didn’t have phones, obviously, just as we didn’t have bike helmets or organised fun. At seven years old, the current age of my children, were we really off on bikes all day so that no one knew where we were? Surely that was nine, or 10, although by current standards a child of even that age whose whereabouts was unknown to her parents would pretty swiftly become the object of a police search. It is a staple of generation X parenting to reminisce about the seemingly endless periods of unstructured time that characterised our days off from school – memories that get wilder with every retelling. In my case, I suspect a lot of this anxiety is connected to the distance between my children’s experience of summer and the memories I have of my own. When holidays drag on this long, they turn from opportunities to relax into onslaughts to be weathered, something even the kids – parked in various facilities between 9am and 6pm daily, like tiny adults holding down tough summer jobs – start to feel after a few weeks. It pushes parental resources to the absolute brink, and interferes with all the rosy ideas one used to have about summer.
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Eleven weeks is an enormously long time to fill, even with the generous free summer camp provisions laid on by the city. This year, we’re back to the standard 11-week break, in line with the rest of the US – a curtailment for which we’re supposed be grateful. Last year, through a combination of Covid and the early falling of Yom Kippur, public schools in New York closed for three months in the summer. In New York, where we are into our third week, the summer stretches endlessly before us, way beyond the six-week period of the British system.
T he school summer holidays in the US fall on different dates according to where in the country you live, but they have one characteristic in common.
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