It’s early days, but so far the whole homeschooling idea is working out better than I expected.
“What was that?” Master24 asked he lifted a base section of our lounge up and over some boxes.
Something, or rather somethings, or rather a lot of somethings, clattered and slithered their way to the low end of the lounge.
With ten days until we leave in our bus, this weekend has been about moving Master24’s stuff from the shed into the house and the bulk of our stuff from the house into the shed – so naturally the balcony, drive and yard has been full of stuff and we’ve spent the whole time nervously glancing up at the sky for any hint of the predicted rain.
It was decided fairly early in the day to sell our lounge and a few other items rather than store them. Then it was decided fairly late in the day we couldn’t be stuffed with all that potential social interaction so we’d put them in the shed.
Which was why we now had to lift the heavy lounge over boxes.
“Something’s in it,” said Tracey, who just then happened to be walking past with a bag of stuffed toys, rather obviously.
I quickly dropped my end. Because not brave.
“A mouse?!” I stammered as Master24 struggled to get his end under control.
Tracey graced me with an eye roll.
“I didn’t say mouse,” she said. “More like kids’ stuff.”
“It can’t be,” I assured her as I pointed back into the family room it had come from earlier in the day. “Every single missing hair band, Lego, apple core, popcorn cornel, pencil, pen, doll’s head, school note and slice of pizza was on the floor under this thing.”
It had been fascinating. And more than a little disgusting. Especially given the kids aren’t allowed to eat in the family room.
“I bet it’s an Apple remote,” Tracey said.
To be fair, it could be up to three of them.
By now Master24 had followed my lead and put his end down. I picked my side up and listened while the items slid and tumbled back towards him.
“What do you think it is?” he asked me.
“Oh, I don’t care,” I told him. “I just wanted the extra weight at your end.”
“We’ll have to remove the fabric underneath so we can get it all out,” Tracey was saying. “Then we can staple it back on.”
I had a major problem with this. Two problems actually. One, we never ever would put it back on. We don’t even own the stapler thing she was keen to brandish about. And two, I was already sick of pretending to care about what we were keeping or throwing away and I sensed this was going to hold us up for hours. And the BOM site was now issuing a warning for a heap of windy wetness coming our way.
“I’ve got an idea,” I announced. “Let’s not get the stuff out.”
“Don’t be stupid,” suggested Tracey.
“I’m serious,” I said. “This can be our time capsule. When we come back from our lap we’ll open up the lounge and be amazed at all the bits of toys and pizza and old controllers from a simpler time. It’ll be epic.”
Tracey was still looking doubtful.
“Think of it as a final lesson in their homeschooling. A time capsule full of strange and wonderful things and they’ll have to write about it, and,” I added, coming to what I thought was the best bit, “clean it up themselves.”
She went for it, and the only negative I can think of is I wish I’d thought of this homeschooling malarkey first thing in the morning: I’d have suggested the whole house be a time capsule and in ten days we could have just locked the door and drove away.
Video snap shot of halfway through the furniture exchange. ‘Mr Hart, what a mess!’ No talking in the video. I was too shagged and depressed about how much we still had to do before the storm hit.
Raising a family on little more than laughs