There is a very particular sound that marks the start of a wet school holiday. It isn't the rain. It's a child standing at the window, sighing like a tragic figure in a period drama, announcing to nobody in particular: there's nothing to do.
It is usually about 9:15 in the morning. There are eleven hours to go.
Here's the reframe, though. A rainy day isn't the holiday going wrong. It's a completely different kind of good — the slow, daggy, indoors kind that children remember for decades, long after they've forgotten the expensive day out. You just have to lean into it rather than fight it.
Not a sheet flung over two chairs. A fort. The dining table is the town hall, the lounge is the west wing, and the hallway is a tunnel of doom.
Two tips from people who have taken this too far: bulldog clips hold blankets to furniture far better than tucking them in, and a torch inside is worth more than any toy. Then — and this is the important part — go away. Forts are ruined by supervision. Let them run their own strange little civilisation for an hour while you drink a cup of tea that is still hot.
If you do one thing on a wet day, make honeycomb. Hokey pokey, if you grew up across the Tasman.
You melt sugar and golden syrup together until it's amber and molten, then stir in a spoonful of bicarb — and the whole pot erupts, foaming up like a science-fiction volcano, before setting into golden, crunchy, bubbly slabs. It takes about ten minutes. The gasp is worth the washing-up.
One rule: molten sugar is seriously hot and it sticks. Grown-ups hold the pan. Children stand back, count down, and cheer.
Rug on the carpet. Sandwiches cut into triangles because triangles taste better, everyone knows this. A thermos of hot chocolate, even though the kettle is four metres away. Shoes off, no plates, crumbs everywhere.
Winter picnics indoors are gloriously silly and cost nothing, and small children treat them like an event on par with a birthday.
At some point in the afternoon, put everyone in gumboots and raincoats and go and find the biggest puddle in the street. Jump in all of them. Come home soaked and triumphant to hot showers and dry pyjamas.
Half the joy of being warm is having been cold first. Kids work this out instantly.
Somewhere around four o'clock, when the light goes and everyone's patience has thinned, put a film on. Get under a doona together. Nobody is failing at parenting here — you have been going since 9:15 and you have built a fort, erupted a saucepan and jumped in a lake.
Winter holidays don't need to be a schedule of destinations. Some of the best ones are just a wet Tuesday, a warm kitchen, a bit of mess and everybody home.
Save the big outings for the clear days. Let the rainy ones be small, and daft, and sticky with honeycomb.
