Cake

Today, The Boy is going on a school trip to The Bethnal Green Museum of Childhood.  Whilst it is not his first school trip, it is the first one he has made without me as his personal co-hort.  I am horribly nervous for him.

Despite my insistence that I wanted to accompany the group, I have been politely turned down. There are, I am told, enough grown ups going that my presence is not required.  This includes the awful Miss Poo, whom The Boy now associates with all things related to punishment at school, so you can imagine the affect that's going to have on his behaviour.

Instead, I will spend my time today pacing nervously, and hoping that The Boy can cope. 

In preparation for this school trip, we visited the museum during half term.  Although he initially enjoyed it, his interest waned.  There is a higher proportion of "things behind glass" than one would hope for at a museum that must see its audience as children, the areas for designated play aren't very large, and the acoustics are awful. 

He found it so loud that, on the arrival of Auntie Hazel an hour or so after we had been inside, he looked at her, and seeing how distressed she was by the obvious volume and crowding said "it's really loud in there.  Shall we go and get some cake instead?"

Today then, whilst I pace and worry; whilst I castigate myself for not just taking the trip to the museum under my own steam to make sure he is ok (for fear that I am not letting him go into the world his own way);  I will hope that there will be someone sensible enough to spot and intervene before he gets agitated, help him when it gets too noisy; who will look him, see his discomfort and offer to bring him for cake instead.

First Day

Today, at 9am, my daughter starts Nursery school.

She had been attending pre school for a few hours every afternoon for the past term.  Her initial upset (which started on the second day and lasted for the next fortnight) abated quickly. Mine never did, and I could be found sobbing pathetically after I had dropped her off.  Every afternoon.

This is now, finally, my chance to "escape" her.  She can go to child care on site after she has finished her morning nursery session.

I could get a proper day time job, stop working a ridiculous night job and actually do something tangible with my phD, re-train, get on, have a grown up life.

*Whispers.*

I don't want to.

I don't want her to go. I want her to stay with me, driving me crazy, being bonkers, flashing me a smile that will and can break hearts, that always breaks my heart as she twists me round her little finger and pushes my hair out of my eyes when it flops in, rubbing my "hurts" when I drop something or fall over, helping me cook, drawing on the walls, throwing things in furious three year old rage, telling me off, making me laugh, making me believe that I can be a good parent, making me want to be the best person I can be, to be a sterling example to her.  I want to be her hero, because she is mine.

It hurts to think of her not with me.  I don't want someone else to get her best laughs, to provoke the throaty chuckle that starts in her toes and spreads up through her body, through every pore.  Those are mine.

I don't want her to wink at other people in the exagerrated way of the toddler, making her entire face a pantomime performance.

I don't want anyone else to get my kisses, or the big tight bear hugs she gives out.

I don't want to let her go.  I have to, but I don't want to. I must let her hand drop, smile, be brave, and pretend that I don't care that she is there, even though I will be counting the seconds, the minutes until my bonkers blonde bird throws herself into my arms and I can start complaining about how bloody loud she is again.

So ends this phase of parenthood for me forever - mothers hold their children's hands for a short while, but their hearts forever.