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So this week I have packed off my youngest child to nursery school. As if it wasnt stressful enough getting two lunchboxes made (does anyone else think, ‘surely that drink will be ok for one more day’…), clean uniform laid out the night before, book bags packed, homework complete, pathetic lies written in book diary of reading progress, pe kits sorted, children washed, dressed, breakfasted every morning, coats, shoes, bags, tuck money, shepherding them to the car and breakfast club. I now have three lots to contend with. There is every possibility that I may breakdown and be found rocking in a corner of the garden, but in the meantime, by way of cathartic expression, I am blogging. This could be all the therapy I need!
First day horrors
If I thought my confident, cheeky three year old was going to happily saunter into her nursery without a backward glance after a whole summer of positive conversations and excitement, then I underestimated the whole situation. From the moment she woke up and I burst in her room excitedly proclaiming that this was the big day, she put me firmly in my place with a withering look. ‘Im not a big girl yet’. Yes you are, I told her. You’re a big girl from today! ‘ I not going. I stay with mummy.’ was her response. From then on the morning mostly involved screaming, crying, rugby style tackles and two grown adults pinning her down to dress her in the new uniform. I got angry and upset, she got angry and upset, Daddy shouted a lot. It was bedlam! My plans for an official photo session with her beaming at the camera in a tiny school uniform was dashed by her refusal to even wear it. I was weepy before we even bundled her in the car so there was really no hope of a stiff upper lip for the school run was there?! The drop off is a blur really. I remember her sobbing and clinging to my hair, clothing and any bits of skin she could lock onto to stop me leaving her. I sat and talked, tried to play, tried to step back from her, chatting cheerfully, all the time with her locked on like a koala bear. The final straw was when she clutched my face with both hands, looked deep into my eyes and with quivering bottom lip and streaming tears begged ‘Please dont leave me mummy’ in the saddest, most forlorn voice. Any semblance of control I had over my own tears dissolved in an instant. Now I was leaving her in her time of need and I felt hopeless. Until of course I looked around the room and saw some parents sadly staring at me with a ‘you’re not exactly helping her’ look in their eyes. No doubt they were fighting their own emotional battles. I turned to the teaching assistant and said in a dramatic manner,’ Im going to make a clean break from her. It will involve tears and screaming but its the only way’. The TA clearly watched hollywood movies too and nodded solemnly. We did it. I left. I cried. It was meant to be all about her and I was going to be the strong parent figure that calmly dealt with it. It became all about me and my emotional attachment to my baby. It was just horrible.