School of thought
I’ve been thinking, somewhat predictably, about school.
We’ve spent so long on the mechanics, picking schools, making the primary school application, buying uniform, spectacularly failing to buy shoes, worrying about this…and now it’s September and school is sprinting round the corner, hello! Surely not already? So soon!
But the one who’s actually going to school is fine about it. She’s excited and can’t wait to wear her uniform. She talks about what she’s going to do (play astronauts with her new friends, apparently). She talks about what she’s going to have for lunch (potato wedges). She’s excited about meeting her teacher and still asks why we don’t get a home visit, a la Topsy and Tim (still no idea!)
But my school of thought is that I am feeling somewhat…up and down about it.
Who am I kidding? I feel like I’ve suddenly remortgaged my house for a one-way ticket on a rickety old emotional roller-coaster that goes at 101 miles per hour, up to a sea of high happy expectations and then precariously down near a deep sea of bittersweet mother-woe.
Yesterday it all got a bit too real. It was her last day at nursery and I spent all of my working day on the verge of having something in my eye. This was not helped by everything I listened to on Spotify seeming to belong to a playlist called ‘Gut-wrenchingly mournful music that gets you right *there.*’ Possibly.
I was surprised to feel so tangibly emotional about it, like a crying cliche.
I think about dropping her off and then having to leave her there. Which is ridiculous because we live within breathing distance of the school and I can even see it out of the window. And she’s been at nursery for two days a week since she was one.
I think about her having to go to school every day, five days a week, which might as well be forever. Which is ridiculous because it’s a much shorter day with a holiday every five minutes so we’ll still have plenty of time for all these.
I think…about lots of things, some good, some not so good, which is ridiculous because I know once it starts and we take the leap and we’re in it that it’ll be fine. It’ll be brilliant. It’ll be a flurry of unexpected dressing-up days and yet more creatively interesting crafts to bring home. I’m pretty sure she’ll love it, potato wedges and all.
But, you know. My school of thought tells me that it’s my baby, my tiny newborn baby, with her little folded frog legs.
I know it’ll be OK (Tell me it’ll be OK?!) But I’ll just be sat over here, searching for happy music, trying not to think about it too much.