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,”