My boys are brilliant. Of course I would say that, wouldn’t I?
But their teachers agree, when I see them at parents’ night and, then, if I wasn’t convinced by all that, piles, and piles, and piles of stuff comes home with them at the end of term.
There are the works of art which arrive first. I quite like them. Especially now Boys One and Two are bigger, the pictures they create are lovely, surprising, astonishing even. Together we choose the best ones to put on the wall. Look, over there.
But that’s when the trouble starts. The next few bags of stuff are workbooks and jotters. First, I look through them admiring their achievement and effort. Then I notice some of the books are only half used and the pangs start.
What am I supposed to do with it all?
I can’t keep everything. Partly because there isn’t space and partly because it’s more clutter and clutter is the saturated fat of the domestic spare tyre. Or something.
Maybe I could use up the empty sheets of paper. Cut into useful squares ready to receive lists, wise (or otherwise) thoughts, they could have a useful reincarnation. Maybe.
But what about the rest? The pages and pages of sums and spelling tests? How can my little chaps’ work end up in the recycling bin – shoved there by their mother? That smells like betrayal.
What do you do with the school stuff?