Double trouble as Little Fella signs up for big national school journey Home alone, but not quite all alone – the limbo of life as a single gentleman
ADDY, my heart is bumping! I’m too excited!’
The thumping, ‘bumping’ heart and the excited expression of the 4-year-old said it all Monday morning, when The Litle Fella declared his interest in education, to a relieved, proud Daddy. Having glided up the school steps without a whimper of ‘I’m tired’, the rosy faced little dude was all aflutter at the prospect of joining his big sister at big school. Having been brought along for the school drop on numerous occasions, up until September when The Whirlwind Princess subtly informed me that my walk-to-class servies were no longer required, The Little Fella was never in a rush to leave and his enthusiasm for his new school was crystal clear yesterday as he strolled around, peeking into classrooms and taking in the pupil projects proudly displayed on the walls.
As a parent whose life is measured out in the mundanities and quiet wonders of household chores and time spent with children; one, like all parents, who finds time hurtling along, it was a big moment getting the Little Fella registered.
Having received the enrolment form the day before the midterm, the children’s mother and I fired off emails promptly to ensure The Little Fella of his place. To find a good school is something every parent dreams of and having seen how happy our daughter is in hers, it was a no brainer as to where to send our son. Saying that, I was mindful of the possibility of enroling The Little Fella in the local Educate Together school. Then news broke that the Department of Education was restricting the number of Junior Infants pupils to 13, categorising the school, along with four others, as half-stream.
In my capacity as a reporter, I attended a meeting where parents, understandably angered, claimed their children were being discriminated against as Educate Together schools are not run, in any way, by the church.
The schools do teach religion, meaning the five main religions in the world, and not just Catholicism.
Parents at the meeting, and in personal emails to my work account, were so passionate about their children’s school that you have to think the management and principals and teachers are doing a great job.
And yet, it appears that at every turn obstacles have been thrown in their path, the latest seemingly an unwillingness to fund moves into bigger premises, or to pay for additional teachers.
The Ireland of today has moved on, thankfully, from a time when one organisation, the church, had far too much power and control. The Ireland of 2018 should be one which shouts freedom of choice, diversity and fair-mindedness from the rooftops, instead of restricting children and families.
As I’m on an educational note, it was great to get back to my old stomping ground of UCC on Sunday during a visit with a friend. Walking the quad and the paths leading through the campus brought many good memories back, Seeing students hanging around the Boole Library and in new buildings said everything about the beauty of education. Maybe The Little Fella will be mooching around there one day too!
DRAT. Here I am miles from home and I know, I just know, I left the milk out on the breakfast table. By the time I roll up the avenue to Medders Manor this evening after a day’s work, it will surely have gone horribly sour. But it turns out there is no, absolutely no, need to worry. I sniff at the carton cautiously, just to be sure, and pour a dollop to check that it is lump free. The kitchen is as cold as the fridge and the milk proves to be as fresh as the day it left the cow, or at least as fresh as the day it left the supermarket. The temperature in the building has been hovering no more than a degree or two above freezing ever since Hermione’s departure.
The adored one jetted off a couple of days ago, pulling her Ryanair friendly suitcase. She brought the children with their Ryanair friendly rucksacks on their backs. All the baggage was light, comprising little more than a few pairs of shorts, a choice of tee-shirts and a light jumper each. They were bound for a week of sun and fun on some far away Spanish speaking isle while I was left back at base.
Her Majesty, the mother-in-law, is also included in the jaunt and she has been keeping me up to date on the vacation with a series of photos sent from her phone. The images are of palm trees and balmy seashores lapped by a sub-tropical ocean. I savour them as I sit alone on the giant lumpy sofa under a rug in the chilly vastness of the Manor’s sitting room.
I cannot bring myself to set a fire just for my benefit – call it laziness or call it concern for the ozone layer. Just as it is too much effort to cook potatoes for one person or open a bottle of wine for one person, so it seems a bother to assemble the Zips and the kindling.
My warm breath clouds in the cold air while I read a book and fondle the head of our dog as he snuggles up to his master. The Pooch is feeling the cold every bit as much as I am, palpably shivering beneath my touch. Nature in its perverse wisdom dictates that he is gently moulting, shedding hair at a time when he is clearly in need of extra insulation. I sympathise with his plight but refuse to contemplate buying one of those ridiculous tartan canine coats.
His pleading brown-eyed look, with ears wanly drooping, is very moving - but what can I possibly do to keep canine hypothermia at bay?
A stint of the single life for those used to sharing a household with three lively and demanding characters is a strange existence. With all family routine abandoned, the sensation is of leaving an accustomed time zone without settling in another, all grasp of normality distorted.
It seems that the bedroom curtains have not been pulled shut for days while those in the sitting room have never been opened. I may find myself doing the crossword at four in the morning, still wearing yesterday’s clothes, or putting out the bins at four in the afternoon, still in pyjamas.
The concept of eating regularly has been blown hopelessly off course, three square meals replaced by sporadic bowls of cornflakes and a gallop out to the Ming Garden for a ration of chow mein. A tide of discarded newspapers and takeaway packaging rises to cover all horizontal surfaces in the few rooms still inhabited. Late night radio provides some diversion, along with albums from that section of the music collection which pre-dates marriage. Playing The Stranglers or The Blades at full volume is not popular when everyone is in residence.
Such indulgences, along with watching a Champions League game uninterrupted from kick-off through to the last word of postmatch analysis, go some way to alleviating the tedium of this limbo in which I find myself. But now it dawns on me that this solitary existence is about to end as Hermione rings ahead to tell me that her plane is set to take off from Playa las Paella.
I spring into action, with plenty of time in hand to gather up all the chip packets, stuff all dirty clothing in the washing machine and give all the dirty cereal bowls a rinse. I even run a vacuum cleaner over the floor. Just one problem.
How the hell am I going to remove all the dog hairs from the sheets of the marital bed?