SCHOOL DAZE
Lessons in letting go leave Kate in tears
Starting the new school year is daunting enough before you even get to the new-school part. All that uniform purchasing, new bags, new books, new rules and new timetables to understand. And that’s just the parents’ side of things!
This year, my daughter is taking the giant leap from primary to intermediate school. I know what you’re thinking: “How is this possible? She was only born yesterday!”
Those years just romped on by while I was busy being the tooth fairy. And here we are, finished as the big fish in the little pond, about to leap as littlest fish into an ocean of sharks. Well, they might not be sharks, but on orientation day, I felt like I was staring at a tank of sharks. My husband had to remind me that it wasn’t actually me starting the new school.
Her first day of primary school didn’t upset me at all. The other mothers wept into their car keys, trying to look nonchalant, and I stood there nonplussed. She seemed ready. She was excited. She looked cute as a button in her giant tunic and huge shoes, and I was nothing but happy for her. But fast-forward six years and, me, oh, my, what has happened to me?
The big plunge from little primary school to big girl’s school knocked me off my axis. Sure, I’d managed uniform purchases and formfilling with minimal emotion. I’d gasped as most parents do at the list of stationery requirements and the “compulsory laptop” prices, but other than that, I‘d pretty much remained calm. Then we had orientation day.
The first thing I noticed was that other parents weren’t just “dropping and running” as I’d planned to do. They were walking in with their child, holding her hand and ushering her into this big new environment. So out of the car I got and walked with her into her new school to find the place where “newbies” were to be dropped.
And then it hit me. This school was big. She was little. This school was new. She was little. This school had lots and lots and lots of girls in it. She was little. I sucked in a huge intake of breath and did my best “everything’s cool” impersonation as I waved her off into the huge ocean of strangers.
I turned and made it to my car with only a couple of guttural, snorty sobs. I got all the way home to my husband, who was standing at the fridge, eating an apple with his head cocked to one side, looking at me weirdly. “What?” I asked him. “Why are you crying?” he asked.
“She’s tooooo little … She’s my baby … She’s …” I sobbed hysterically.
My husband, choking on his apple, hugged me. “Babe,” he whispered calmly and supportively. “You are gonna have to get your s*** together.” He was right. Poor choice of words, but he was right.