J’ai eu une mauvaise journée

You know it’s going to be a great day when you are in such a rush for the morning school run that you get back home from it to find you left your keys swinging in the door. This was my Wednesday.

Before I even found my key mistake, I had had to endure a school run morning unlike many others in my time as a Yard Mum. From having new swim bags to pack and explaining the concept of “combing your own hair” to a selectively deaf 7 year old, to which cheese in the packed lunch to argue over, via toothpaste down the only clean cardigan and then discovering Ava’s shoes were on the wrong feet half way down the street, it was fair to say it wasn’t one of my best days. Nil desperandum, the day can only get better. Look at the positives Jenn - you were in fact so late to school that the bell was ringing as you crossed the road, meaning you only had to wave the kids off at the gate instead of going into the yard whilst trying to muster your tiny amount of knowledge on social interaction, forcing yourself into seeming human. The glass is half full, and in less than 12 hours it could be with wine.

The day, however, did not get better. It deceived me somewhat, by skirting by on the “okay” side for a large portion of the day. Nothing of note occurred, which is just how I like it. Lulled into this false sense of security, I let my guard down. The late afternoon rolled around, and I was juggling my toddler niece and own two tired messes with my dad. We combine forces sometimes. He cooks, I clean (noses and arses, mainly). I wasn’t fully paying attention to the pings and rings on my phone, until I was given my hourly coffee break (AKA Board Game Time) and glanced down to see 14 notifications on WhatsApp. Now I have many communication apps on my phone, most of which I either ignore or have preferences set to how often they come up. My Messenger, for example, is muted, purely because I cannot “wave” at any more ex-pat relatives who then proceed to send me “hilarious” Baby Shark videos. My dear, I was riding that Baby Shark train back when you were still voting us out of the EU and shaking your fist at anyone with a tan that wasn’t acquired via Benidorm. And so, muted.

Legit, actual text messages too have become something I use only to receive my eBill, as well as to send copy and paste “Sorry we can’t make Xs party because...” messages. No notifications here.

Emails I check regularly, as I use it for reminders about the important things like “School Lunch Order Cut Off Day” (AKA “Now You Have To Buy Those Expensive Cheese Strings Again Because You Didn’t Order Lunch” Day) and sales at various stationary shops. You know I’m not paying £11 for four pastel highlighters. I need to know when that sale is on.

Snapchat allows me the chance to talk to people in confidence, as everything I rant and rave about will last mere seconds, and desolve into the ether the second they close the app. I use this frequently to share “WTF is my kid even doing?” photos, often accompanying Ava with oven gloves on her feet like a penguin. No notifications there.

And so, to WhatsApp. I use this only for one person - my husband. It’s the quickest way we’ve found to have Gif Wars, and send each other videos of our shitty days and the like. I’ve had this app for many a year, and only to correspond with him. Now, this is important, because it links to the end of this tale. Tom has called me many a nickname in our decade-and-a-half partnership. “Bellend”, has been a favourite just lately, or “Bell” when we’re feeling casual. Namely because I’ve been an absolute one for the last month and half whilst on my redecorating crusade. However, one other nickname has stuck through many a year, and it is important that you realise this is exactly why it was my nickname on WhatsApp up until this very Wednesday.

So my WhatsApp notifications are blowing up. I’m thinking he’s either had some sort of accident, or is bollocking me for not responding to something really rather important. I open the app, however, to find it is not he who is making my phone scream like it’s have a nervous breakdown. I’ve been added to a new group. A Yard Mum group. Panic dawns. I’ve opened it, they’ve seen me open it, and are expecting response. Already I’m typing and deleting the sarcastic bits, trying to recall my aforementioned social skills that I only use in short supply at 8.45am. Short and to the point, be nice and above all DON’T SAY ANYTHING THAT IS ACTUALLY IN YOUR BRAIN. I have learned such skills after many an encounter (see the post with tales of the GP and my neighbours for reference).

It was going well. We were all welcoming the New Mum, and she was particularly interested in talking to me because her son and mine had become good friends since he started school this year. I had to make a good impression, for Dylan’s sake. I left it on a high note. All the mums were there. The quiet ones, the organised ones, the ones I knew in person who, like me, were probably Googling “How to socialise like a normal person”. But their names were coming up differently. Some had their first name only, others with surname. Some even had nicknames. You know, shortened versions of their actual names, which is exactly what a nickname should be for someone around 30. Like “Jenn”. Which is exactly what my name should have shown. Except it didn’t, as it wasn’t. It didn’t have a name on my screen, because the app assumed (wrongfully) that I would know who I am, and this is how I was blissfully unaware of the fact that my name was showing up as my nickname. Oh no, not “Jenn”. But my nickname between Tom and I. So as “X” and “Y” were typing away happily, I was coming up on their screen as none other than “Benders”.

Benders.

Let that sink in. A group of 30-40 year olds who have spent the last three years trying to smile and nod, keep the peace and make small talk about Little Johnny - as well as the New Mum whose son was now buddies with mine - all saw that I, who they believed to be one of them, was unashamedly calling herself by a name more fitting to a teenage boy with an anonymous Bebo account.

Just to add insult to injury, I recently changed my phone settings to French, in a bid to slowly pick up the language. This, mixed with the raw panic upon my sudden realisation of the “Benders” situation, resulted in me copying and pasting another parents reply back into the conversation, as though I had been studying it closely at my leisure, and then almost conducting a group conference call at 9pm. Upon deciding it was probably not the best idea to simply leave the group (or “Quitter le groupe” a button I found with relative ease) - not from a social standpoint, but purely because I didn’t want “BENDERS LEFT THE GROUP” to start a conversation about who I was - I slowly found the Change Nickname tab. Never so hurriedly have I pressed Backspace. Be gone, Benders, and pray to the old gods and the new that nobody noticed.

The half full glass was now well and truly empty, and I can do nothing but say “merde” about the whole damn thing. Naturally I told Tom about the whole saga, to which he responded kindly with a gif of someone howling with laughter. I also lamented my torment to my mum, who laughed as though she had just watched a particularly good clip of someone falling down a flight of stairs on You’ve Been Framed. I apologised to Dylan the next morning, stating that if his new friend isn’t allowed to play with him any more then it’s nothing he’s done wrong. I mean, would you let your kid play with the son of “Benders”?! He was confused, but being selectively deaf, as I have mentioned, he carried on telling me about his newly painted Regalia in Final Fantasy XV. All in all, it has taken me a full two days to come to terms with the fact that I will now forever be known in hushed tones as “Benders”. But on the plus side, there’s a very good chance I’ll never be invited to another Mums Night Out again.

An update: From Mardy Mum to “Miiiiiiss”

I go through phases with this blog. I have a mad dash for creativity now and then, and force myself to upload a post. Sometimes I create a draft, leave it for a day or two, reconsider it over a glass of fizzy stuff (the aforementioned hobo-boot liquor that is Lambrini) and delete it forever. Don’t worry, you didn’t miss much. Just ramblings and typos. And then I will ignore this blog for - literally - years at a time. I started this blog in the autumn of 2015, knowing full well that I was talking to myself. I don’t often feel the need to talk to myself, but today was a day for an internal monologue that screams to be written down.
In case you didn’t know (and you probably don’t, because I haven’t posted for 9 months) but I am now a fully qualified teaching assistant, with training in assisting with Special Educational Needs. I was inspired by some of the people I came into contact with once my own children started school. Everyday heroes. The saviours of our next generation. Those with the patience of a Saint. In a word: Legends. You know who I mean. Teachers. Teaching Assistants. SENCOs and volunteers. Heads and Deputies. Kitchen, lunch and medical staff in our schools. People who, although only human, keep our collective faith that things - even though they might be a bit shit right now - can, indeed, only get better. Because they are collectively preparing and equipping our children for the big, bad world. They teach them everything from reading and writing to zipping up their own coats. A lot of parents may say “my child could recite their Pure Sounds from the womb, and they zipped up MY fly as I gave birth to them(!)” but, and be honest, you cannot put your hand on your heart and say “a teacher has never taught my child something valuable” if you have a child in the education system. They recite the boring bullshit hourly that we call the alphabet. They sing songs to reinforce the days of the week to your child. They painstakingly sit with your child and question them on seasons, plants, spellings, times tables, the history of 1666 - and why this changed our modern outlook on basic safety - the reason for using speech marks in stories, the idea of socialising and friendship, how to count in tens, why we need to be kind and considerate, animal facts and respecting religions, creeds and colours. They remember that your child has trouble with telling time, and randomly questions them on it - nudging them towards saying “quarter past” instead of “the big hand is on the three”. They recall a child that mixes up “d” and “b”. They spend time with that child when a spelling test calls for them to write words with those letters, urging them to remember the correct way around of the lines. They know which children are easily distracted, and they purposely call upon them to answer questions, and relate it to stories they’ve told of their hobbies and interests. They know the child that comes in hungry every day, and make sure to pass this information to the kitchen staff so they get the larger portion of cheese flan. They know the child whose mum has just had another baby, and makes sure that they have five minutes before the lesson starts to just... have a breather. They know every single one of those 30 children inside and out. They know their friendship groups. They know what they want to be when they grow up, even before the child does. They know their strengths - and they push them on it. They know their weaknesses - they coach them on it. They do all of this - and so much more - in just 6 hours every day. Be honest, that is more than you, a parent, can spend with them some days. They make or break our children... and in my experience so far, that has always been “make”.
My children don’t go to a posh school. They don’t stand like robots, reciting the alphabet and singing the National Anthem. They go to a school that was, in recent years, in “Special Measures”. But that is used in the past tense. The school has reinvented itself. Every single teacher and member of staff in that school works their fingers to the bone for every child there, and with no expectation of anything in return. They bring our children up, preparing them for the outside world. They resolve arguments and tie laces simultaneously. They teach values and basic maths within the same hour. They listen to what your child got up to this past weekend, and recall it later to link a new topic to their interest. They wipe noses, knees and tears. They stand in the cold whilst your child plays on the yard. They watch their cup of coffee - in a specially lidded cup, for your child’s safety - go cold, because their break lasts all of 45 seconds, and they chose to use that time to console your child that was crying over the most inane of friendship problems.
The long and short of it is this. I saw these people - these Super Humans - and I was humbled. I wanted to do what I could to help. I didn’t have much to offer them except my time, and my time was well spent. I volunteered for a year, just over. I listened to a few children read, reinforcing the knowledge that had already been instilled in them by their teachers. It was nothing for me, just an hour a week. But the look on the teachers faces when they looked into my eyes and said “thank you” was enough to convince me that, yes, the education system is so important. They care about my child’s future. So should I.
I enrolled on a Teaching Assistants course in September last year. I didn’t have the confidence to become a full teacher. I couldn’t hold the responsibility of the futures of 30 children in my hands. Not yet. But I was ready to help.

I passed with flying colours, taking on subsequent courses in Special Educational Needs Support. I love it. I wipe noses. I reinforce which side the line goes on the “b” and the “d”. I resolve conflicts about “he said I’m bad at Minecraft, but he’s bad at Fortnite!”. I tie laces, and show them how to try for themselves next time. I photocopy worksheets. I take the child with concentration issues to one side and help them focus on their work. I let the teachers - our heroes - breathe out. I make jokes that “I can deal with 30 kids. I can’t deal with adults.” If you’ve read my previous blog posts you know how true this is. I literally can’t talk to adults. I threaten to have them sterilised when I do.

Coming soon: me being less mushy, me being more “I can’t believe I just bloody said that,”

Wedding Bells and School Run Hells

I've got a lot on my plate right now, and no, I don't mean the ultimate Pizza Hut buffet for once. My sister is getting married next week and all the family are flying out to Vatican City for the festivities. Now take into account that 3 of the 6 of us have never been on a plane, and one of the remaining 3 that has only did it once, as a teenager, and didn't have the responsibility of getting my lovely but bonkers father across the continent. Now add in a pinch of strikes and possible flight cancellations, a 6 year old who is "terrified" that the plane will crash and kill everyone he loves and holds dear, the bride being an actual grown-up and wanting her bridesmaids to have "normal, human hair" (which apparently does not include blonde and pastel pink ombré) and the general anxiety of knowing that at any moment, anything could go wrong, and you've got the makings of a wine-induced coma just to cope with the next 7 days. But wait, there's more! Last week, the youngest started school. A stressful time for any parent, but add in the factor that my youngest is in fact feral and you've got yourself a headache that only screaming into a pillow for approximately 3 hours a day will help with. Or so I thought...

I used to take Dylan to school when he was in FS2 and often Ava was along for the ride. Many, many mornings were spent with me prising her off the beanbag chairs or bribing her with a hot chocolate because she wanted to stay and play. Then there was that one time where she just whole-heartedly sat on the carpet and expected to be able to join in, ignored every one of my gritted-teeth threats and had to be carried away screaming in front of my fellow parents and peers. At the end of the day when it was time for a second dreaded school run, she would leap around the yard like one of the Lost Boys, howling and calling to her fellow preschoolers to join her gang of insanity. Let's just say she got a name for herself early on, and that name was The Wild Child.

Fast forward two full years of wrangling, bribing, screaming and pleading (all from me) and she is ready to ditch the muddy knees, don the striped tie and occasionally let me brush her hair. "This is going to be an absolute nightmare." I would ponder throughout the six week holidays. "She's going to be dirty by the time the 8.55am bell rings, and won't want to leave the yard. She's going to walk into the classroom and think she owns the place, because she's been there before and because she is a full foot taller than her peers. She is going to be the bossy kid with muddy cheeks that no parent will want their child associating with."

I never had these concerns with Dylan. Even from nursery age, he would make friends and influence people. He had a younger, more demanding sibling, so he knew that sharing and saying nice things were the key to an easy life. He would be fine at school, and I don't have much time to think otherwise because I am too busy coaxing Ava from inside the playdoh cupboard. He will be fine.

And he was fine. Fine and dandy. He never once cried that I was leaving him at school, and never once complained that all of the attention was directed towards his more feral sibling. He knew that Ava was a creature you couldn't possibly ignore, and he had found his place as a wallflower and liked it. And all was well.

So here we are, two years later. Did Ava cause a fuss and Dylan had to simply shrug it off and deal with it? Did Ava climb the wall on the first day and accidentally maim a smaller 4 year old whilst showing everyone her Taekwondo moves? Did Dylan simply shrink into the background when the spotlight fully fixed on Ava on her first week at school?

Absolutely not.

Ava really surprised me this last week. Sure, she was giddy and excited on her first day, but she said "Good morning" to her teachers and lined up nicely behind the small children waiting to put their coats on their pegs. She kissed me goodbye and waved me away, telling me to have a nice day as her dad and I watched on. She sat nicely beside another child at the computer table and said hello to them, before playing on her own computer she had chosen. When I picked her up a few hours later, expecting at least one child to have come out with a bandaged head or at least tears and an accusing look at my daughter, she skipped through the doors holding a painting, smiling and giving us both a huge hug. She held our hands and skipped home, recounting her day and answering the barrage of questions we had for her. She was... Normal. Well, not normal, because she is my daughter and therefore extraordinary, but she wasn't muddy, or bloodied up. She was as mature and prepared as Dylan had been two years previously, and I felt a twinge of guilt for ever thinking otherwise.

Meanwhile, how did Dylan take this? Well let's just say that if Ava surprised me, Dylan pulled out his secret weapon. Every morning since that first day, Dylan has stood in the line, silently as always, until the time comes for me to take Ava to her classroom. His grip gets tighter onto my hand, his eyes get wetter. "YOU CANT LEAVE ME!"

Wait, what? You're the big boy, the almost-7 year old. You shouldn't be having attachment issues now! You certainly didn't at 3 years old when I stood in the nursery room doorway, holding back tears as you ran off without so much as a backwards glance at the woman you hadn't been away from for more than a few hours since birth. You're going to choose now - right now - to have an emotional breakdown? 

He has done the same every single morning since Ava's first day. He clings to me so tightly I wonder if I should check the family tree for traces of someone having bred with a koala (I suspect my husband's side, personally) and there is only so long I can pass it off as "he's tired". No doubt some of the other Yard Mums are starting to think "well put him to bed before midnight then you irresponsible hooligan!"

I worry about him all day, but needn't, as he reliably informs me that he has had a "great day" every day. So why the amateur dramatics come the AM then son? Because I can only threaten you through gritted teeth and bribe you with hot chocolate so many times before I feel like history is repeating itself and he has had a complete role reversal with Ava.

Whilst all this wailing and gnashing of teeth is going on, however, Ava is halfway up the path to her classroom, shouting "BYE MUM!" over her shoulder as she runs to her new life in FS2. I am bewildered. Do I follow her and leave a sobbing, hysterical 6 year old in the yard so that everyone looks on in amazement as I abandon him in his hour of need?  Or do I wave back to Ava, shout "BE GOOD!" back and tend to the over emotional antics of the Y2, making everyone look on in even further amazement as I let my 4 year old essentially bring herself up?

"No wonder she's feral." Is all I will hear. Not out loud, because everyone is too polite to ever say what they actually think - as is the rule with school yards across the world. Be nice, be robotic. The mantra all us parents say as we sigh, unlock the door and head out onto the daily school run. But I will hear it internally, because that is exactly what I would think to myself as an onlooker.

The only way this could be worse is if I flit off to another country for a few days and leave my husband to deal with the school run...

Oooh that reminds me! I'd better get packing for Rome...

Time For School

The first time you take your first born into school is a very emotional time for obvious reasons. Before they were in your life, you were a completely different person. But for the last 4 years, you have wiped snotty noses, salty tears, food-covered cheeks and indescribable bums. You have watched every episode of Peppa Pig - more than once - and you can't remember the last time you had a full day of not retrieving Lego from under the sofa/ behind the units/ from being embedded in your foot. You identify less with the celebs of the day and instead model your life on that of Nanny Plum. You haven't read a book without pictures of bears on the cover since maternity leave, and silence only means that something, somewhere, is getting Crayola'd.

And then they start school. You hand them over for 6 hours of the day, and your life is your own again. You drop them off, get home and see that CBeebies is still playing. You can turn it off if you want, but you don't. The house is silent, bar the ticking clock and the occasional boiled kettle. You can do whatever you want for 6 hours. But you generally don't.

That is, however, if you only have one child. If, like me, you have a younger human in your household, your day didn't stop. You carry on watching CBeebies and pulling Lego from between your toes. You still have apples to cut up, and tears to wipe. It is almost business as usual, with a school run thrown in for good measure.

But then, it's time for the smaller human to go to school. "It's fine" you tell yourself. "I'm a school run veteran."

Until you get home, and the clock is ticking loudly. There really is no reason for CBeebies to be still playing, and you are completely and totally alone. You initially relish the freedom, with your plans ranging from dancing around the house to having a nap by yourself (and not with a child, Mr Spike, White Cat, Black Cat, Little Lion and Snurgles). Again, you do not. Instead you catch up on the correspondence you were ignoring. You vacuum the stairs. You stare through the window at Mr-Next-Door for a bit. You constantly check your watch for fear of missing the school run. You never understood people when they told you that an empty house is an unhappy house, but you finally believe.

It is somehow worse to drop your youngest off at school. They are the family baby. They are the ones who kept you busy when you dropped off the older ones on their first days. You couldn't miss them, you were busy with the baby. But now who is left to look after you when someone else is looking after them?

So Ava went in for her first taster session at school today. She bounded around the yard, confident as always, a full head and shoulders taller than most of the others. She scooped up a child she recognised from nursery, and played tig for a while. I watched as the other children hung to their parents, some sobbing, and the look of worry and fear in their parents eyes. I was lucky that my eldest was also quite confident, as he was not a hanger-on or a crier. He was nothing compared to his sister, however, who was now telling some of the terrified parents that she "likes butter because the buttercup said so".

"At least you know she'll be ok." One of the mothers-with-child-attached said to me.

"Oh yes, she's very independent. She's been looking forward to this since her brother started."

Mindless chatter. Small talk. Very conscious that Ava is making herself very known, and silently proud of her confidence and personality.

She is getting giddy now, running to the point of falling. She got straight up, declared herself "fine" and carried on. I called her over, grabbing her attention for a moment.

"Look sweetheart, it's almost half past." I show her my watch in a bid to distract her from her run. She is 4. She has no concept of the things on my watch beside the numbers. I could have very easily said "Look, banana fish underpants" and meant more to her. I only showed her my watch to make her stop running, even for a moment, so she would be still and calm. She shouted "OKAY!" as she ran off, having glanced at my watch for a quarter of a second.

The mother beside me must have noticed this, because she immediately peeled her child off her and made him recite the letters of his name. She corrected him as he said "eye" instead of "i", and probably felt pretty good about herself for showing me that her kid has basic alphabet skills.

I thought nothing of it until later. Then it hit me. She thought my child could tell the time. The child who was running around the yard shouting "BUTTERCUPS!". She thought that I was showing her my watch and reinforcing what she already knew.

How much of an arsehole must I have looked?! To her, it was "my daughter knows complex Key Stage 2 skills. What can yours do?!". To me it was "Please stay still" whilst hoping the slow moving second hand would have caught her attention enough to make my wish come true.

Ava went in just fine, without so much as a goodbye hug. Not though my choice, you understand. I would have loved nothing more than a little squeeze from my baby girl. She ambled off, leaving us parents standing around clueless about our lives from that moment. I had made myself look like a show-off, it was all downhill from here.

Fast forward 2 hours of coffee and solemnly feeling useless, it was time to go back to school. We reassembled ourselves by the reception door, eager to hear about their morning. We hear the tiny footsteps that can only belong to our little cherubs, and the voice of their new teacher.

"This is our headteacher."

"Hello children," he calls, booming but warm.

A lone, childish voice - "Hello!"

The mum who believes my daughter to be a MENSA candidate turns to me.

"That'll be yours."

There was no decipherable way to tell which child it was from behind the door. Only context clues. The fact that Ava stood confidently and independently for the drop off has obviously spoken volumes. She is the loud kid. The confident kid. The more than likely to be a bit bossy kid.

So to conclude, I brag about my genius child who only needs glance at a clock for a nanosecond before deciphering the time, and don't hug her as she enters the classroom for the first time. I am already, more than likely, the Mum To Avoid.

And she doesn't even start until September.

School Yard Politics. Welcome to Awkwardsville - Population: Me

Just when I think I'm safe, something happens to drag me back and remind me that I am, in fact, a socially awkward nightmare. So the last few posts have been about the joys of finding friends in the yard, and how much fun we have once we're out of the school gates. This is the norm, a typical school run in which we use our new fangled  glossary to talk gibberish and make the daily chore of dragging our children in and out of school more bearable. But that was not this day.

Fans of my awkward encounters and reoccurring foot-in-mouth disease should hold on tight - this one is up there with Arsene the cat and telling my male doctor that my husband's chances of procreation rest entirely on his ability to not annoy me. Top up your glass... I know I have.

Backstory. Every good tale needs backstory. So, Dylan. My boy. My pride and joy. I would do anything for him, even if it means knocking a few heads together if I get the slightest hint that he's being hurt or upset in some way. However, the knocking together of heads of 6 year olds doesn't sit well on a resume of someone who wants to teach said 6 year olds at some point in the future. So I didn't knock heads together. I did the proper mum thing. I spoke to Dylan. Not as an adult. "She did what? Fuck her off mate. Don't need that in your life. Move on, and flick her the Vs on your way." But also, not as baby. "Awww Boo-Boo, just play nicely for mummy, OK?" No, I spoke to him as I assumed it was safe to speak to a 6 year old. With honesty.

So, he was having trouble with a girl in school. They were best friends one minute, mortal enemies the next. A fair amount of tears were shed - daily - about what new name she had called him, or how she had squeezed him too tightly, or how she tells him who he can and can't play with, or threatening to cry if he goes to Friendship Club during lunch break, or... You get the idea. We all know girls and indeed adults like this. "My way or the highway". Nothing wrong with it, if that's your way, but there's the highway, and that's my exit. Keep your drama, I'm outta town. You get the picture. So I pretty much told Dylan this. Keep your distance if she gets a bit too much. Don't let her dictate your happiness.

Sound advice, I thought. Well done me, for not knocking any heads together. I didn't lose my temper about her - even though I was often close because of how upset she was making my first born. His biggest bugbear was that she wouldn't let him play his choice of game, or with his friends from his class. So I just said, and I quote, "If someone upsets you, don't play with them."

Time passes, weeks maybe? I notice this girl, who would often be the first subject from his lips after a school day was making less and less of an appearance. Dylan seemed a lot happier about the prospect of going to school in the morning, and lots of new names were mentioned at the question "who did you play with today?". Alls well that ends well.

Right?

But I also noticed something else. The girl, whose mum would park by our house and walk with us to school sometimes, stopped doing so. In fact, I noticed that she was parking much further away, even though she knew she could save herself a bit of distance by parking near us. She stopped talking to me in the yard - even though we barely did, just pleasantries really. I thought nothing of it, really, and just went back to being glad that Dylan was happy again.

Until today. I'm in the yard, minding my own, when suddenly, I see her. I smile and say "Hello", as you do. She didn't seem like she was happy about it, but she couldn't stop herself. She started talking.

"So, my child tells me that she doesn't play with Dylan anymore."

"Really?"

I was trying to think fast. Bad idea. I knew full well that she wasn't being mentioned, but I hadn't asked Dylan why.

"Yes, she says that when she asked Dylan why she can't be friends anymore, he said that he's not allowed, because his mummy told him so."

And there it is. The moment that every Yard Parent dreads. A confrontation from a fellow parent about, not just your child, but you. Specifically you, and what you allegedly said. I was aghast. I felt a hot wash of shame as my cheeks blushed the colour reserved for London buses, and I stammered to get my words out.

"He... Wha..?.. Ha ha... When did...? Wow, that's the first I've known, or you know, heard, and stuff... But.... You know, wow. Yeah, so I know they weren't, you know, hanging around much, actually, anymore.... But yeah, no... Yeah I don't know what's happened here."

I know exactly whats happened here. He got it from me. I said ditch the spare. I told my child to leave anyone who makes you feel like a shit version of yourself behind, move on and make your own happiness, even if that means being alone. He did, and now, as any 6 year old would, he was honest about it. When someone asks "why don't we play together anymore?" we adults bullshit. We lie and scheme and make ourselves out to be less of an arsehole than we actually are. It's called "diplomacy". We give them positives about themselves and say "hey, it just isn't working out, but you're cool though." For the most part, obviously. But a 6 year old? Ah, the beauty and innocence of childhood. You ask a 6 year old why you don't hang out anymore, and they'll bloody well tell you. "You upset me. And my mum says she doesn't like me being upset, so I shouldn't play with people who upset me."

Fair enough. Long may his honesty reign. But to a fellow 6 year old, that sounds an awful lot like "My mum doesn't like you", and when relayed to that 6 year olds mother, it can cause quite a few ruffled feathers.

Her child, from another class to Dylan, came out of her classroom and signalled it was time for her mother to leave. I garbled something about "having a word" with Dylan, but that could have meant anything to her. I gathered up my own child and waited until we got home to have that word.

"Did you tell your friend in the other class that you aren't allowed to be her friend anymore because I said so?"

"Yes. You did though, didn't you?"

"Now now, Dylan, let's be careful here... I didn't actually say not to be HER friend, specifically, I said 'people that upset you', didn't I?"

"But she does upset me! So I told her to leave me alone because my mummy says I'm not allowed to play with people who upset me."

So, what have we learnt, class? That honesty is the best policy? Even if it leads to crossed-wires and "he-said-she-said" that could put you in a humiliating spot? Should I have stood my ground, said "that's almost right. I told him not to play with bullies, so if that's what he thinks she is, that's his decision." Whilst pulling my sunglasses down over my eyes and internally screaming "YEEEEAAAAH!!"? Or should I have downright bullshitted my way out and landed Dylan in it? "He said what?! You wait until he gets home, the lying little bleeder. I love your kid, she's ever so lovely to everyone around her, why wouldn't he want to be her friend?"

Or option 3. Stumble over my words in an embarrassing way, whilst neither confirming nor denying that any such conversation took place, therefore guaranteeing that I'm never invited to that particular kids party ever again?

It wasn't sunny enough for sunglasses today. And I would never drop Dylan in it like that. Option 3 it had to be.

I knew I should have just knocked some heads together.

How to make friends and influence people

I started this blog mainly for my own sanity. I spend a lot of time talking to people under 10, so a lot of what I want to say goes unsaid. My own internal monologue involves a lot of swearing, with jokes that would go over the average preschoolers head (I say "average" because I heard a youth on the bus say "That's what she said!" recently. He was not average.)
I digress. Basically, I had nobody to talk to. I would recount my day to the husband, but only after a lot of thought went into which bits would be filtered (he didn't need to know that today his daughter slid pant-less down the stairs singing Row Row Row The Boat after a particularly eventful toilet trip). The point is, nobody really knew what it was like to be me, and that is just the way it was. However, after a few months of bumping into the same few people on the 5-days-a-week school run, small talk turned to general chatter-chatter. General chatter-chatter, which is not the name of a character in a kids TV show, was a welcome break from the usual silence of the school yard. We talked less about "Oh, that was your kid that did that! Yes I read about it in the school newsletter!" And "Ah yes, that was a particularly tricky homework." And more of "How are you?"

And so, against what I initially thought would happen before Dylan started school, I started to make friends. It was through no great social brilliance on my own part, to be honest. It was down to pure luck. Another mum happened to have gone to my old school and been best friends with my sister for a few years, and she knew someone else and we become a trio. We scooped another off the yard because she tittered at our loudly idiotic comments, and became quite the foursome (a word that would have us all giggling like immature kids, even now). We have a few sideliners too, who occasionally make up the group, but all-in-all, we get along quite well.

We suggested a coffee morning one week, just for giggles. That's what mothers do, right? Have coffee and discuss the homework schedule. And that's what we did. For the first few weeks.

By the time Christmas in the kids second year rolled around, we decided to get a cheeky tipple in for the coffee morning. It's Christmas after all, and Jolly Old St Nick wouldn't begrudge us. So a bottle of Prossecco was aquired and we enjoyed it immensely. In fact, we enjoyed it so immensely that Prossecco Mornings completely eclipsed Coffee Mornings, and have ever since. I say "Prossecco", but it should more accurately be called "Sparkling Wine Mornings", because the Prossecco quickly became Cava, which in turn devolved into Lambrini. For those unfamiliar with Lambrini, imagine drinking sugary urine from a boot that was found at the bottom of an old box. You get the picture.

And so, my outlook of "stand silently and collect your child with as little drama as possible" has completely changed. I now get to the school yard with a new (hushed) story to tell or hear, and people to listen along with. We all agree that we practically live for our Friday Mornings, and have promised not to judge each other's abodes. We're all in it together, for the next few years at least, and it's such a relief to have someone along with me for the ride.

As for why I have suddenly decided to update this blog after a massive gulf in content? Well, I may have mentioned to the girls today that I have a blog. We may have been having a Friday Coffee Morning/ Lambrini Afternoon and I may have agreed to post a new page.

I might even come back again soon and tell you how best to get scooped by a Stepford Wife (hint: don't be me!) and why on Sunday's.. We wear capes!

First Impressions - A Lesson In Being Awkward

I'm an awkward person. Once people get to know me, they say I'm quite a nice gal. I make silly comments. Sometimes they're witty, but more often than not, I wholeheartedly regret ever opening my mouth. I curse my parents for teaching me to talk, and wonder how anyone ever stuck around long enough to actually get to know me.
I've always talked fast. My sister and I can have a full conversation in seconds, and grown humans stand agog at how we can understand each other at such pace. It can come in handy, for getting your word into an argument, or sounding like you're in a rush and need to get away from someone. But the problem with talking fast is that you need to be able to think fast too. Or else, what comes out of your mouth is usually unfiltered rhubarb that makes you cringe with every fibre of your being.

Too many times have I been on the verge of falling asleep, when my brain suddenly gives me a swift kick. "Remember that time when that lady asked if you'd like to buy her huge ceramic Buddah? And you said "God no! That kind of thing isn't my taste at all!" Remember her hurt look? Remember your red face? You absolute moron. Goodnight."

It happens to everyone, I know. But most use them as anecdotes, proudly telling people of the time they had a lapse in their usual great conversation technique. I, however, seem to have these moments on a semi daily basis. Sometimes, I can limit them to bi-weekly, but only if I stay inside for a lot of the week.

Quite recently, I went to the doctors (not for chronic awkwardness, although I really should) and rather made a fool of myself. I usually have a female doctor, and we have a little small talk and chit chat. I say my usual stupid things, but women seem more forgiving of this, either that or they're not fully listening, and I seem to get away with it. This time, however, it was a male doctor. And he had no time for my inane ramblings, and made no bones about it. Firstly, when I had a telephone consultation with him about my deaf ear, I made faux pas number one.
"I'll fit you in at 10 for a look."
I didn't hear him fully, and asked him to repeat what he'd said.
"I'll fit you in at 10."
"Thank you. See, that's how bad my ears are."
There was a slight pause, as we both tried to comprehend what I'd just said.
"10. Goodbye."

And that was the end of that. I'd known the guy for 1 minute and 25 seconds and already he knew that I was not cut out for interacting with other humans. I knew he thought I'd set the joke up by asking him to repeat it, but I honestly hadn't. I just tried to lighten the mood and it backfired.
So 10am came, and he called me in to his office. He had a look at my ears and I tried everything I could to avoid sentences with more than 3 syllables. Then, I had to talk to him about something else - renewing my contraceptive pill.
"I'll need to weigh you."
"Oh, ok. But just know that these boots are really heavy, like a stone each, and my phone is in my pocket. It has a really big screen so that'll add up..."
Why did I say more than three syllables?! Why did I open my mouth? Why did I ever leave the house? My brain banked the exchange for bedtime, as I cringed internally. It wouldn't have been so bad if he'd have just done a polite laugh, but he didn't. He stared at me blankly, also wondering why I ever left the house.
"So, the contraceptive pill. You do know there are side-effects? Have you ever considered getting your partner sterilised?"
"Only when he's really annoying me."
It had happened. All awkward exchanges that had gone before were forgotten. This was now in top spot as Stupidest Thing I've Ever Said. He looked at me blankly, for a second, wondering if I was joking. He was caught off guard, expecting a simple "yes" or "no". They hadn't trained him for this at medical school. He probably also wondered how any man could put up with me for so long for me to ever need the contraceptive pill. Luckily, that was the end of the appointment, and I could drag myself home to wallow in embarrassment.

Some people might be reading this and wondering what all of the fuss is about. So I said some stupid things occasionally. Big deal. It wasn't even that bad. But that's the problem, it isn't an occasional thing. It's every time I meet someone new. I try to make jokes and fail completely, making myself look like an absolute imbecile. I avoid all social interaction if I can. I refuse to call companies out of fear I'll say something stupid enough to have my service cancelled. I try not to make eye contact with fellow parents in the school yard, in case I accidentally call their kid ugly or something. When I really must speak to another member of the human race, I over analyse every last detail of the conversation to find fault and judge myself. And this just happened.

I got home from being out for an hour or so to find my parcel had ended up next door. Having lived here only a month, I didn't know the neighbours. I hadn't even seen them before, so I had nothing to go on in terms of small talk. All I knew is they had a cat. And I know this because it sits outside their house. That's it.
So I muster up every bit of courage I have, and take Ava, to go and knock next door. It's OK when I have a kid with me. I can talk through them. Or get them to do the talking. Either way, it feels safer. Anyway, I knocked. No answer. Praise be. I breathed a sigh of relief and scuttled off home.
7pm rolls around. I've just taken my make-up off, and gotten into the most baggy, and most unsightly, pyjamas I own. I've pinned my fringe up because it gets in the way of my eyes when I'm reading the kids' bedtime story. There is a hole in my sock. Basically, I look like a hobo that's broken in. There is a knock at the door. I remember instantly about the parcel. It must be the neighbour. I haven't met them yet, and first impressions count. I don't want them to think me uncouth, or else they might think I'm ok with things like afternoon bonfires and leaving the shared gate open. I can't not answer, I'm standing near the window. He's seen me. Fuck. I answer the door and immediately start talking. Bad idea.
"Hiya. Is that my parcel?"
It's obviously my parcel. He didn't bring his own parcel round to show me.
"Er, yes. Here you go."
And that, dear reader, is where the conversation should have ended. A "thank you" and closing the door would have meant I could go inside with my head held high that I finally managed a relatively normal first impression. But it didn't end there. I noticed his cat had followed him to my front door, and was mewing loudly.
"Can I ask...?" I started, already wishing I hadn't. "What his, err, it's, name is? Is it a girl or boy? Only I love cats."
Well done Jenn. Not only do you look like a bad Bridget Jones cosplay, you have now confirmed that you are in fact a crazy cat lady too.
"Oh, it's Arsene."
"Arsene? As in Wenger."
Stop talking. Stop talking now.
"No, Orson. As in Orson Welles."
"Oh that's good, I can't stand Arsenal."
He looked confused. He was either an Arsenal fan, and was insulted, or he had never heard of Arsene Wenger.
"Oh. Erm. Ok. The other black and white one that hangs around is Dylan, as in Thomas."
And that's when something else happened. I spoke again. I wanted to sound as sophisticated and in-the-know on literature as this guy, and wanted to say "Aha, a good choice of name. My son is called Dylan Thomas. Big fan." Or something similar, that didn't make me sound like a gimboid. But what happened instead was awful. An unnaturally Yorkshire accent came out of my face.
"That's me lads' name an'all!"
Dying inside, I tried to explain my interest in his cats that didn't make me sound crazy.
"It's just that my daughter, she loves cats, and she always likes to say hello to this one when we see him around the path."
Cheap shot, ok, I blamed the child. But it's true, she does say hello to him every time we see him, and I was interested to learn his name. The neighbour seemed to go home happy that he'd done a nice thing by bringing our parcel round. I'm still not sure whether I'm overanalysing the horridness of the exchange, or if he thought nothing of it and went about his evening without ever considering that I blushed the colour of sunset as soon as I had closed the door.

So today I have learned many things.
1. Do not overanalyse. You will send yourself mad.
2. Don't try to be funny, unless you have proof that you actually are.
3. Stop talking. Stop talking.
4. If you can't manage the first 3, stay inside forever and unplug the phone.