My first child’s going to school, and I’ll cry if I want to. But I’m not sure I want to.
The world is delighted to tell me what a big moment this is. Everyone we’ve as much as bumped into for three months has told my daughter the same.
At first, I could see her confusion. Then I could see her pride. Now, I can see her anxiety. After all, it’s probably peeling off me in waves.
There’s the constant chatter of who can do what. Parents share furtive whispers about kindy streaming (or not), Best Start tests and who’s squandered the last pre-school summer on, you know, fun. Freddie can write his name. Bette can read. Ava can add. Alfie can pick his nose.
I’m texting my comrades – What goes in a school bag? Did Ivy have a dental check? Have you heard they’re finishing at 2PM for two whole weeks? And, for the love of God, HOW MANY HATS?
Today, I found myself staring at ‘lunchbox inspiration’ in a newspaper supplement. Will hand-filled, kitten-shaped sushi rolls really enhance the kindergarten experience?
I suspect that really, this moment should be a celebration, not an anxious trial.
A first-day guide for overly anxious parents.
Gone are the days when those first steps through the school gate are the first away from a mother’s side. My daughter – like many, many others – has been in the care of trusted professionals, for varying lengths of time, for four years already. What’s daunting for her – as she marches around ‘practising’ her school shoes and opening a lunch box – is not separation but scale and expectation.
Yes, it’s overwhelming. We grew them and fed them and carried them around like tiny koalas, and now they can run faster than us, refuse us and think for themselves.
But really, what a moment – it’s the beginning of so much, the end of so little.