Summer Holiday Survival, Episode 1: The Day I Bit My Tongue (and Nearly My Own Face Off)

Summer Holiday Survival, Episode 1: The Day I Bit My Tongue (and Nearly My Own Face Off)

If summer holidays were a sport, I’d be in the endurance event — six weeks, five kids, and one mother trying not to narrate every disaster like an overcaffeinated David Attenborough.

Today, I set myself a challenge: keep my mouth shut. No sarcastic comments, no “helpful advice,” no “Seriously?!” shouted into the abyss. Just… zen.

Spoiler: it went exactly as well as you’re imagining.

5:04 AM.

Instead of a gentle lie-in, I’m woken by the dulcet tones of… drilling. Not actual home-improvement drilling — a plastic toy drill being pressed repeatedly against my bedroom wall. In my pre-challenge days, I’d have leapt up with “Who authorised renovations before breakfast?!” Instead, I channelled my inner monk and asked, “What are we building today?”

The answer: “A pool… for my shark.” Obviously. Who doesn’t need one of those in their bedroom?

Mid-morning, at the park.

I’m halfway through my coffee when I spot my three-year-old at the top of the climbing frame, running what can only be described as a dictatorship. He’s explaining to other children why they cannot go down the slide unless they pass his “test.” The urge to yell, “It’s a public park, stop acting like the Mayor of Slidesville!” is strong. But no. I sip my coffee like an emotionally-detached extra in a crime drama and pretend he’s someone else’s child.

The Pringle Incident.

Here’s where my silence was truly tested. On the way home, I made the mistake of handing them a tube of Pringles to share in the car. Somewhere between “pass them nicely” and “don’t eat them all yourself,” the tube tipped. Pringles poured into every car crevice like tiny salted frisbees.

My brain: “Fantastic. The car’s now a mobile crisp packet.”

My mouth: “We’ll sort it when we get back.”

Sorting it involved me crouched in the driveway, fishing out crushed crisps with the precision of a bomb disposal expert, while muttering things that would’ve made a sailor blush if I’d said them out loud.

Lunchtime.

The kitchen transforms into “Zaara’s Restaurant” — which seems to be a mix between a greasy spoon and a student flat at 2 AM. On the menu? Toast, cereal, crisps, and half a jar of Nutella — all served on the same plate. My natural reaction: “Even Gordon Ramsay would faint.” But I smile, pay my fake £900 bill, and leave a generous imaginary tip.

Today’s takeaway?

Keeping my mouth shut is hard. REALLY hard. But apparently, it’s the only thing between me and spending the summer holidays as the star of my own Netflix docuseries: Mum Loses It. Tomorrow’s goal? Survive another day without narrating the chaos like a sports commentator at a demolition derby.

✌🏼 FiveKidsOneMom