Back in the day when I was fresh out of high school, there used to be a song on the radio quite a lot: ‘If it’s Tuesday, this must be Belgium/If it’s Wednesday this must be Rome/If it’s Thursday this must be Montrose/I fear I never want to go home.’ I haven’t heard it for decades although the lyrics have stayed with me because, latterly, the lyrics came to represent the week-long ‘flying tours’ of Europe organised by tour agencies. At the end of the tour, of course, tourists often felt like they’d been caught up in a whirlwind of wonderful images of buildings and landmarks, though they couldn’t accurately say which landmark belonged to which European city.
I was reminded of the song the other day as I watched the expression of anticipated rapture on the face of little Tim, aged just three. He is the second son of Megan and Jim, two friends who just turned 30. Andre is their older boy, just turning five and busy telling everybody he’s going to the “big school” soon. As with working parents, there’s a strict routine built into the working-day system. Both leave for work early in the day, which they feel is a good thing because it allows them to get back home early and to also get their home tasks done before bed time.
So, on Mondays, the boys get driven by mum, or dad (depending on who’s won or lost the toss to do the driving) to the local creche, or the early childhood centre. They are usually cranky when they are picked up again later in the evening. Tuesday is a stay-at-home day in the company of strict Grandma Jess who drives nearly 70 kilometres to babysit. Grandma Jess is the kind that will brook no nonsense. During the day, in her charge, she will ensure that both Tim and Andre get schooled in a series of rules and regulations: “What do you say when you want some more?” “Please, Grandma Jess.” “And what do you say after you’ve been given some more?” “Thank you, Grandma Jess.” Play time, rest time, meal times ... they all have a very strict dimension with Grandma Jess. She is one of those “on the dot” sticklers for punctuality. If the boys are meant to be in bed resting or even napping after lunch by 1pm, you can bet that with Grandma Jess they’ll be in bed by that time, to the minute.
On Wednesdays, because the childhood centres can be terribly expensive, Tim and Andre’s other grandma — Jim’s mother, Louise — drives over to be with the boys. Louise allows them to watch television while she gets on with her knitting. Hours of children’s programmes, which Tim and Andre watch standing up close to the television set. Grandma Louise is a minimalist — in correcting children, that is. She permits them the freedom to run around the house and frolic on the carpets, even to the extent of disarranging the cushions on the sofas and strewing pieces of jigsaw puzzle far and wide. Later in the evening, just before Megan and Jim arrive, she will pick up the mess and set things right while the boys stand on and watch good Grandma Louise do all the hard work.
But on Thursday, it’s Grandpa Alan, Grandma Louise’s husband, that walks through the door. Tall, broad-shouldered, white whiskered and smiling. No sooner has the sound of Megan and Jim’s cars faded than he will bundle his two grandsons into his own station wagon, packed with secret goodies (chocolate and milk shakes) and off they will go where the whim takes them: To the park, to the swings, to the museum ... It is a Thursday and, although Tim is too young to know a day by its name, the expression on his face is rapturous. He knows that after Grandma Louise’s day, it’s got to be Grandpa Alan’s. And he’s loving it, waiting at the front door.
Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.
