Pots and Pans

Midget 1 is about to start pre-school. Five afternoons a week, 35 weeks of the year. Should be delighted. I am, in fact, horrified.

He starts on September 13th, making him exactly three and a half years old. This is far too young as far as I am concerned. I have many, many more all day piss abouts for us to do together and, frankly, I don't think Midget 2 is up to it without her big brother to help her. There are plenty more pirate days, jelly fights, and water fights for us to have that require a minimum of four hours solid playing.

I find the whole idea of sending such a small person somewhere that will 'mould them' utterly loathsome. Mostly - I'm frightened.

On the assumption that he will have the same effect on those at school as he does in real life, he'll be grand. But - and this keeps going through my head - what if he is as socially inept and awkward as his mother?

What if he is bullied like I was? What if he gets picked on for being different like I was? I can't ignore the parallels between us - single parent family, disability (he with ADS and DDS, me with epilepsy), us both being a bit different.

I hated school. I despised how people were victimised, vilified or worshipped. I found the whole process vile.

I was never, and will never be cool in any way, shape or form. I stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb. I hated college. I hated University. I hated law school. I was never a part of any of it.

I don't it in, and I accept that. I will always be the odd one out. As I grow older, I have begun to appreciate how weird and odd I am, and in some ways it has benefited me. It causes me a great deal of pain to think that this could also be my son's life.

When I talk about The Boy, I always describe him as 'special' rather than 'average' like other children. It concerns me that what I perceive as special others will see as something to be thuggish to him about.

There's an old saying about ifs and ands being pots and pans. I can honestly say that I have no idea what this saying means. What makes a lot more sense is something a wise woman once told me - your children will break your heart more not less as they grow older. I was the cause of far more upset and pain to my mother at 29 than I was at ages 2 or 9.

The hardest, most heartbreaking thing is to let your children go. This is regardless of if they are 3 months old and you're going back to work, at 3 years to go to school, or at 30.

Come the big day I will, of course, be on the verge of complete collapse all day. Knowing me, it'll probably start 3 days before, if not earlier. He will obviously be fine. So will I, considering that I now have the rest of my life to experience many first days at school for both kids. My nerves are surprisingly firm - perhaps this is because I realise those pots and pans are for hitting people who are mean with...