Tag Archives: school

My First Day at School by Me, age 44 ¾

The Loneliness of the School Playground

The Loneliness of the School Playground

So much is written about a child’s first day at school, and rightly so, but it can be easily forgotten that it may also be mum and dad’s first day at school for a long time. Decades in our case (well, technically only a few months for me, but I’m not counting education as an adult because it’s so different).

And it can be just as nerve-wracking for us.

Children will have their own concerns. Will they see their friends? Will they make new ones? What if they’re the only ones struggling with the buttons on their coats or putting their wellies on the wrong feet? Will their teachers be nice to them or will they keep telling them off?

In Motormouth’s case he was, oddly, really worried about being bitten by one of the other children.

And it’s only right that we are there to reassure them, to give them a comforting cuddle before we say goodbye to them in the classroom doorway, or that wave to remind them they need to put their book bag away in their drawer so it won’t get lost.

But who is there to reassure us? Especially those of us who are, like me, a bit of an introvert?

I mentioned this to the Other Half, who struggled to understand why I was so worried, everyone was in the same boat weren’t they? This from the man who is on first name terms with half the parents already after just a week or so. I know two grandparents by sight, one mum and one dad. No names have been exchanged yet. This is even with the supposed advantage I have of having picked Motormouth up more often from school than the Other Half.

He’s not an introvert. The Other Half that is.

Or Motormouth, come to think of it.

I am.

I’m hoping I’m not the only one who pulls out my phone to answer imaginary texts that are so time-sensitive I have to ignore the world around me. I’m the one who stands in the corner towards the back of the playground so Motormouth knows where to look for me as he files obediently out of the classroom with 30 other children, all looking identical, with grins lighting up their faces as they see parent or grandparent waiting to hear all about their day. (What did you do today son? Nothing.)

I’m the one watching, with my hazel eyes just a bit greener than usual, as little knots of parents form, talking about their kids. I tell myself it’s just because their kids have been to the same playgroup or they live in the same road. I tell myself that it’s not a clique really, and I ought to be brave enough to say hello and join the group.

I’m not very good at listening to myself.

Perhaps it’s made worse by the fact that it’s a village school. Most of the children live in the village. We don’t. We chose it because it’s a good school with good inspection reports and the parents of children who have been there told us the school worked for them. That their children were happy there and learned a lot.

I’m telling myself to start just one conversation with somebody where I exchange names with someone. Hopefully it won’t be someone who is just doing the school drop off as a temporary measure, someone who will be absent from the playground forever in just a few weeks.

Then I look at Motormouth as he runs around the playground, part of an endlessly changing group of children who tag each other, stopping for a quick dinosaur impression here and there.

That’s when I think again, I’m not the one who matters. In the big picture, the one that’s a portrait of Motormouth, he’s the one who needs to feel comfortable coming to school. To feel that he has to make the most of those few minutes before the classroom doors open or we start to trail out of the gate towards home. To cram in as much as he can before he enters the more ordered world of the classroom.

In the meantime, I’ll stand there, one of maybe half a dozen parents who aren’t engrossed in conversation with other parents. One of those grown ups who switch their attention from their phone and whatever random question they’ve put into their search engine of choice, as the classroom door opens and children start to emerge, clutching their water bottles and book bags.

I’ll wait for him, for his face to light up when he sees me, just before he pulls a clown face and jumps around. I suspect he’s slightly embarrassed by the attention.

I should go now. I don’t want to lose my spot in the corner.

Boxers Not Briefs Please, Mummy

I Love My Uniform!

I Love My Uniform!

OK.

I know it’s been a few days weeks since the last post and all I can say is sorry – real life sort of took over and hijacked me.

Motormouth started school, which was of course a really big thing, and we were trying to cram as much as we could into the time we had left with him, mainly because the Other Half works a lot of weekend days. I think we did pretty well getting to the Historic Dockyard (twice), Sitingbourne and Kemsley Light Railway (twice), the Royal Engineers museum, picnics, trips to the park… Eventful if knackering.

Then, of course, there were the mutual support communiques with other parents whose children were about to take the plunge into education – the difficulties of getting exactly the right colour of fleece in something approximating the size you think you’re child will grow into around Christmas had the potential to generate quite a thread.

Strangely enough, we all seemed to be doing OK with underpants. At one point, oh, maybe a week before school started, I had managed to get two pairs of PE shorts and a dozen pairs of boxers (Motormouth has decided he’s too grown up to wear underpants, so boxers it has to be. Why are boxer shorts for a 4 year old more expensive than they are for the other half anyway?). I felt really bad until I found out I wasn’t the only one. Thank you Facebook.

Motormouth loves his school uniform, at least so far, which is a bonus. I really didn’t fancy the arguments to get him dressed, the daily Battle of the Toothbrush is quite enough, thank you very much. We have had the odd meltdown, especially when I wouldn’t let him wear his baseball cap to bed, or his trousers in the garden. I can deal with those. At the moment anyway.

As to how it’s standing up, Motormouth is proving to be a true boy. On the first day he came back with a lump of play doh the size of my head ground into the knee of his trousers. (OK I might be exaggerating there, it may only have been the size of his head).

The second day he managed to get tiny little splatters of blue and yellow paint all over the back of his sweatshirt. It’s just a shame his school colours are red, white and grey.

Then we had a day’s grace before I had to pick up MudBoy, which was odd since I was sure I’d dropped Motormouth off there in the morning.

It’s just as well they make trousers with Teflon these days (it must have been a parent who had that idea.) It was quite sweet when he put his trousers in he washing machine on the Friday night and came to ask me how to turn it on. It was a little while before I could persuade him that we really did need to wash more than one item at a time.

Then of course we have the mystery of the disappearing socks. He started school (was it only 10 days ago) with 10 pairs of socks. They all went into his newly-cleared school uniform drawer. Three days in and I was scrabbling in the washing bin to find a pair of socks, hoping he wouldn’t notice since he has a strong belief that everything in the washing pile must be stinky (including the T shirt he wore for a whole 3 minutes).

I think I’m just going to have to get used to having one of those boys. He’ll be climbing trees before I know it.

So, do you think Motormouth will grow into his father’s shorts by Christmas? Maybe? Perhaps I should just order some more socks instead.

Mummy….?

Questions, questions, questions.

Questions, questions, questions.

This week, in fact this year, has been a time of questions. I never thought one small person who hasn’t even started school yet could have so many questions. And why do they feel like they come all at once?

If you read the Facebook page (note the quick plug there?) then you’ll know that Motormouth starts asking questions, oh, around 6 seconds after he wakes up and finishes somewhere around the time he finally falls asleep.

It’s not too bad when I can see them coming. I can try and prepare for the answer. I’ve become a dab hand at explaining things like the Big Bang, how dinosaurs died out, how tractors work or the life cycle of trees.

It’s the sneaky ones that leave me gaping like a stranded fish.

All I can say is thank the gods for Google (other search engines are available). Motormouth has got used to me saying “I don’t know, I’ll have to look it up”, and we’ve turned it into a shared task; an expedition to the library or search on the internet. It’s even seen me pacing out the length of a blue whale in a certain supermarket’s café, much to the amusement of the other customers.

But the questions I can’t predict?

What’s pineapple in Japanese?

How many meteorites are there in the universe?

How many sea creatures are in the ocean?

How many of them can live in the Arctic?

Why do pigs make bacon?

Why don’t slugs have shells like snails?

Why do sharks have fins?

Why didn’t they put orange paint in his painting set?

What’s that fish on the fish counter in the supermarket?

Why is the sky red in the evening?

Why isn’t my skin black if it’s hot today?

The list goes on.

And on.

And on.

He seems to have developed an insatiable need to learn things, not that I’m knocking that, in fact, I’m trying to nurture it, but I wonder how the playground conversation might go when he starts school.

Did you see Fireman Sam last night?

No. Did you see that National Geographic documentary on giant prehistoric sharks?

I’d love to be a fly on the wall for that one.

In the meantime, I have this secret, if slightly nerdy, dream of us sitting at the dining room table doing our homework together. I won’t mention it to him yet though.

I’ll just carry on trying to field the questions whichever direction they come from.

So, what’s the strangest question you’ve been asked?

K is for Kicking

 

K is for Kicking

K is for Kicking

Kicking footballs, that is.

And sliding down slides (hopefully without getting wedged halfway down).

And sitting on swings.

And generally reliving all the childhood activities you secretly wanted to do but were too embarrassed to actually do (at least in public).

Having children gives you the excuse you need to run around playgrounds shouting, or gallop across a field pretending to be a cowboy (or girl) or knight on horseback. (Please tell me I’m not the only one to do that!)

It’s a little like having a second childhood without the disapproving looks, you know the ones, where people obviously think you’re having a mid-life crisis.

One without a flash car.

You can even watch the latest animated films without feeling as if you are either being childish or slightly sinister. Yes, I know they put the extra layer of meaning in for adults today, at least in the good ones, but it’s still nice to be able to appreciate the “aah” and “ooh” moments for the innocent elements of the story that they are.

It’s amazing some of the things that haven’t changed since we were children. I can see my little boy resisting the same temptation to jump off the swing at the top of the arc. I say resisting, but I’m pretty sure he just doesn’t have the courage yet. I’m going to keep telling myself that to make myself feel better.

And that’s one of the scary parts of being a parent isn’t it? We know they’re likely to do exactly the same things we did, and in all likelihood not hurt themselves too badly when they do, but now we know how dangerous it is.

And what the possible consequences can be.

And I really hope he doesn’t so some of the things his father did when he was growing up. Like riding his bike off the end of the pier into the river. Repeatedly.

Or jumping off the swing at just the right point to land on the roof of a nearby garage. (OK, so that was me rather than his dad.)

Getting back to the change thing, a lot of the same nursery rhymes are still sung, though I don’t remember any about spaceships when I was little (and I would remember, having been a nerd since I was about 5).

We’re not at the stage where he’s at school, so I don’t know if kids still play chase (or British Bulldog as we used to call it) or run around the school field playing the latest Doctor Who villain. At our school you could always tell what films had been on at the weekend. There’s nothing quite as surreal as a large group of school children staggering around during lunch break with their arms held out in front of them chanting “Odd Bod”. Yep, you could always tell when Carry on Screaming had been on.

I have no doubt there are things that will be different. I haven’t a clue about the impact of You Tube and social media on what children do nowadays but I do know how quickly crazes can spread, or how difficult it is to make sure they only see appropriate stuff. Gone are the days when fads came from films and TV programmes and were spread via comics, cereal packets and word of mouth (and the displays by the supermarket tills that parents dreaded). The characters and toys ended as video games, they weren’t spawned by them.

Ours aren’t at that point yet I’m not going to worry about it.

I’m sure there will be plenty of things to freak about before then.

Besides, they only know how to find Octonauts and Curious George on the smart phones at the moment.

And in the meantime, I’ll try not to get stuck in any swings and face the embarrassment of having to be rescued by firefighters.

On the other hand…