It’s the little things.
In theory, you’re completely down with the fact your small person is starting school this week.
To be honest, these summer holidays have been so unrelentingly long that you would consider leaving your kids with wolves between 9am-3pm if it gave you five minutes to write a work email or finish a cup of coffee.
You know she’s ready. You know he’s excited. You’ve been to the open days, you’ve checked out the route in the morning. The school shoes are paid for and polished. They’ve been worn around the house a few times. Lunch boxes have been practice-opened, labels are on all of the things.
Maybe, like me, you already have a kid or two at the school, so you're pretty certain that the place knows what it's doing. That the teachers don't have scales under their clothes. That they've guided tiny, confused people through the whole 'sitting still for more than 15 minutes at a time' thing a few times before.
You know all that.
And yet. It's the little things.
You watch him try to look brave when someone tells him, 'You're going to make so many friends!' Because you know he's shy underneath the relentless noise and motion, and he's privately terrified he won't.
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It occurs to you that she's going to have to take care of her own things. Take off her hat and bag and hang them up on a little hook with her name on it. For some inexplicable reason, this makes you catch your breath in your throat.