First day at school
Nyika started at her ‘baby garden’ last week.
The night before her first day I realised I was dreading it. DREADING it. It had all seemed like such a good idea until it became reality. I was going to have to leave her there. I was going to have to put her down and walk away, and for the few hours she was there I would have no idea how she was or what she was doing or whether she was upset. And weirdly this was the first time I realised that I had never actually done that before. Except nipping out to the cinema a few times once she’s been asleep and leaving her with a friend while I was in the hospital having her sister, I have spent every moment of her life with her, just a few inches away, on hand for whatever she might need.
And now, all of a sudden, here I was on the cusp of handing her over to strangers, casting her into that choppy ocean that is the education system with all its attendant perils. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t. All this was a mistake. She was too young. She wasn’t ready….Or was it me that wasn’t ready?
This was getting ridiculous. I knew this was a good idea. Nyika is intelligent, active and sociable beyond her years, plus she had the opportunity to pick up a new language. This was going to be good for her, as well as giving me and C the chance to spend some time together. On top of all this, I make a point of doing things that scare me – the more they scare me, the more determined I am – so here I was, staring down the barrel of one of motherhood’s scarier challenges and what was I going to do…run away?
The morning came and all the way there I focused on swallowing my fear. I stopped the buggy a couple of times just to crouch beside her and stroke her little face. I felt exactly like I was taking my most precious lamb to the abbatoir. And she didn’t know. She had no idea of the hideous betrayal I was about to perpetrate. Once we arrived I unstrapped her and handed over her little rucksack. She took the teacher’s hand and trotted away without a backward glance, so I took the opportunity to run.
I sat at home in an eerily silent house and replayed the scene in my mind. She had seemed happy and eager to join the fun, hadn’t she? There had been no backward glance even. But then that was surely because she hadn’t for a moment expected me to leave. What had happened the moment she had realised I was gone? Did she cry? Did she (gulp) look for me?
At picking up time I was at the gate, peering through, desperate to gather her back into my arms. Where was she? What would she do? How would she be? Would she be tearful? Angry with me? Would she clutch at me desperately?
None of the above. Instead I got a cheerful, pleasantly surprised but pretty casual: ‘Hi!’ and a report that she had been very happy and well-behaved. In fact the more enthusiastic welcome was reserved for the carton of chocolate milk I’d brought for her.
She’s now at her baby garden every tuesday and friday morning, and I am gradually shaking the feeling of dread that accompanies me to the school gate. I suppose that this, after all, is what parenthood is all about. A series of little moments of letting go, until such time as we realise that in front of us stands a self-sufficent person. And maybe, just as on this occasion, it’s the parent that finds it difficult.
I’ve got a little poem to add here, which, funnily enough, was found and sent to me by my own mother, but I can’t find it at the moment and will have to put it on later.
Things We Found Along the Way 