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!