Twenty eight years ago

Twenty eight years ago today, I saw my sister for the last time. I have no recollection of that last day, only that she had not slept well the night before and had, as on so many nights, got into my bed with me so I could protect her. She had a funny little fear of being the last person awake in the world, and I would promise her each time that I’d lie awake until she was asleep so she wouldn’t be. She was a funny girl, my sister, so brave and strong and feisty and fearless during the day, and so defenceless and frightened at night. She was tired that evening, so on a coach journey returning from a day out with our family, I encouraged her to go to sleep and said I’d wake her when we arrived. I sat with her and watched her fall asleep, that little girl with long legs and long brown hair falling into her face, and her pure, sweet smile, and then I went off to play with our sisters, happy in the knowledge that she was getting the sleep she needed. When I went to wake her as promised, I couldn’t. She never woke up.

It seems trite and meaningless to say now that the experience and horror of losing my sister that day was cataclysmic. Of course it was. All those times people have said, in horror, ‘it’s just the most terrible thing’ and all those times people have said ‘I just can’t imagine’ – they were right. It is an unimaginable horror. It is the event around which my whole life has been shaped. All of our lives – my parents, my sisters, my grandparents, my cousins and aunt, the rest of our family. And now that I’m a mother, I look back and I cannot fathom the blackness and bleakness that my parents had to live for ever afterwards.

And now that I’m a mother, those scars are deep and far reaching. The knowledge that sometimes, without apparent meaning or reason, the most terrible things happen, is embedded deep within me. Sometimes it paralyses me, that knowledge, looking at the faces of my own children, their little faces turned towards me with so much love and so much trust. They rely on me to keep them safe.

It’s been much, much worse, this fear, since the littlest one has been admitted to hospital several times with chest infections and breathing issues. One hour he can be fine, running, laughing, playing, and the next he can be struggling for breath. My fears over them used to be irrational: a baby slipping from my hands beneath the bath water, a toddler flying into the road, a car accident. But now those fears have a base in reality where I’ve watched him struggle for breath. I’ve laid in hospital beds with him lying on me, his big eyes beseeching me to make him feel better. I’ve listened to doctors tell me their worries and I’ve held him down, screaming, while they put catheters and antibiotics into him. I’ve held him in my arms and told him I would keep him safe, that he would be fine, that soon he would be better because I would make it so.

Most of all, perhaps, I’ve laid beside him at night listening for each breath and tried to make the right judgement calls on whether he needs to go to hospital.

When managed, what he has isn’t serious on a daily basis. When he gets a cold, his airways swell and his chest doesn’t manage to clear it so well. Maybe eventually he’ll be asthmatic, but a high percentage of children grow out of it by age five or six. Meanwhile, the children’s ward is filled with children like him and grey faced, frightened parents like me. ‘It’s winter,’ the nurse told me cheerfully once the first, most frightening period was out of the way and he was breathing well again, as she gave him his thirteenth nebuliser of the day and night. ‘This is all I do.’ And it does make me feel better, that matter of factness, that safety in numbers, but lurking behind it always is the knowledge that at times it is very serious indeed. When we’re in an ambulance or when the doctor sees us within five minutes of our arrival in A and E, or when I’m lying in the darkness listening to him wheeze and wondering when is it a perfectly normal reaction to a cold and when will he be struggling for breath, or when I’m at work and the nursery says he’s a bit wheezy and I’m torn, so torn, because he’s probably totally fine and tomorrow it might be worse, it isn’t matter of fact. It’s a little boy, our little boy with his sweet smile and cackling laugh and his obsession with Alexa and his lying his head gently on my shoulder and saying ‘mama.’ It’s a child who, like his brother and sister, are our whole world. They’re my heart beating outside of my body. They make up the precious, fragile landscape of my whole life. They make me frightened and vulnerable. Then it isn’t matter of fact. Then it’s a fear, a dark, uncontainable, swelling fear that threatens, in those moments, to drown me.

And perhaps the roots, not all the roots, but some of the roots, of the darkness of my fear lie in that day, twenty eight years ago today, that I told my sister to go to sleep and that I would keep her safe.

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Seeing things clearly….

It turns out it’s pretty hard work, this being a mother of three and working full time. This should come as no surprise, because it was pretty hard work being a mother of two fairly independent, slightly older children. There was always too much to do and too little time. I always felt pulled in several directions, marking books when I felt I should be holding hands, planning lessons when I should be reading stories, working on my laptop when I should be playing games. I felt guilty often. I wished I had more time, a less demanding job that I could still love as much, more arms, more hours.

Adding a baby into the mix has meant at least quadrupling the work, the neediness, the organisation, and the guilt. Definitely the guilt. I start my mornings with infinite patience. I listen to spellings, make breakfasts, pack bags, remember which child has swimming and which has dodgeball, which child has homework due and which one has class assembly. I make bottles and write notes in planners. I plait hair and line shoes up by the door. And I hold the baby or stalk him, frantically applying make up and drying hair as I go, as he crawls around relentlessly pursuing things he can’t have. By 7.45, the patient, kind mummy has run for the hills and in her place is one who shouts all too often about shoes and teeth and being late. Afterwards, as I throw the baby and all the bags into the car, I feel guilty that I didn’t keep my patience. I run back and give kisses, hugs, love – but I never feel it’s enough. Guilt accompanies me all the way through nursery drop off – he always cries and adds another layer – and to work. After work it’s more hours of tasks, of logistics, of work, of splitting myself three ways and so often failing.

It’s easy to get taken up with all of that. All that work, all those tasks, all that guilt. Because being a parent – and at least attempting to be a good one – is getting to the end of the day and counting up all those tiny ways that you failed that day. The chocolate you allowed them to have. The time you didn’t spend with them. The story you didn’t read. The extra episode of television you allowed them. The times tables you didn’t make them learn. The patience you didn’t have and the fear that you aren’t doing enough.

It’s easy for that to become all that there is – for all those things that you don’t do and that you still have to do – to overwhelm you, to become everything about being a mother. Because motherhood is a hard, testing, guilt-ridden, sometimes isolating road. But this weekend made me feel differently. It made me remember that all that isn’t even a tiny part of the true story of motherhood.

I spent the weekend in hospital with the baby. He’s been ill all week with a chest infection, travelling that path that babies and children often take of ups and downs, of seeming better and then lapsing again. It’s been a frustrating week of logistics – of working out who takes time off, of seeing doctors, of forcing calpol and antibiotics into him, of nights of worry. By Friday night I was walking the floor of a tiny hospital room, unable to stop either the crying or the sudden, more frightening, deep sleeps. After a diagnosis of a severe chest infection and some IV antibiotics, I put him in his hospital cot and lay down beside him, thinking of all those parents for whom this is a daily reality. All those things I think about on a daily basis – those logistics, the endless tasks, the guilt – they fade to meaningless nothing beside the sight of a baby in a hospital cot.

In the darkness of that night, alone in the hospital as his temperature spiked and doctors and nurses came and went in the dim room with their charts and their whisperings and their jargon, I held his small, fever wracked body and listened to his laboured breaths and felt the greatest helplessness I’ve ever known. I cried in the darkness, looking down at his flushed little face, his perfect, rounded, naked limbs, this baby that we made from scratch. And when in the morning, when two hours before his temperature had finally come down and we had both slept, I watched him wake up, look around, and crawl two paces towards me across the cot, I was drowned in love and relief.

Of course I’ll still feel the stress, the guilt, the pressure of the to do list, the despair over packed lunches and dishwashers that haven’t been emptied and PE kit that I forgot to wash. But the darkness of those hours in the hospital and the desperation I felt – I don’t think they’ll leave me. Because being a parent is about all of those small, difficult things, those logistics and those lists, but it’s mostly about love. Love and a desperate desire to protect and nurture these beings, big or small, old or young, that we have been fortunate enough to bring into the world and who map, precisely and miraculously, our reasons for being every day.

The annual saga of World Book Day….

I am totally aware that this is my second post about World Book Day. I know there’s probably only so much first world problems ranting that people can be bothered to read relating to dressing up and books and children who refuse to be anything reasonable. Sometimes they refuse to be anything at all. But here I am, with my second post in three years, because well, children. And World Book Day. And the infuriating nature of both.

Child 2’s school were entirely transparent about their hideous dressing up plans. She started talking about it weeks ago, while I rocked in the corner muttering about fresh hells and gibbering about costumes and reaching for the gin, and announced her intention to be a black cat. This is solely because her greatest ambition in life is to wear her pyjamas in her daily life, and my strict rule (as a line in the sand it’s a pretty poor effort to be frank) is no pyjamas outside the house. She owns a black cat onesie (and a pink rabbit one that is her favourite: there was much time spent on manufacturing and then discarding pink rabbit book character ideas) So a black cat it is. Midnight, Maud’s cat from The Worst Witch, to be exact. A somewhat minor character, but by this – my fifth World Book Day as a school-going- child mother – I couldn’t care less. It’s a character from an actual book. And I don’t even have to take out a mortgage for the costume. Job done.

Given the lack of communication from child 1’s school, I assumed myself in the clear, and metaphorically dusted my hands off accordingly. Sadly, it turns out this is much too soon. Possibly even tempting fate, like a fool. A fool who never learns. No self respecting primary school is going to let World Book Day pas unmarked. (I imagine the teachers feel much the same as the parents) In the time honoured style of a Montessori led school, where students take responsibility for their own learning and education and, as it turns out, World sodding Book Day costumes, it was left to Child 1 to pass on the news that, in fact, his school are dressing up. He imparted this news this evening, three days before World Book Day. THREE DAYS. Let’s say it was not especially well received. In the spectrum of costume acquiring parents, stretching from Pinterest to Amazon, I’m so far towards the Amazon end that they send me suggestions. Three days, even with Prime, is frighteningly close to having to make the costume myself.

One of the other mothers provided me with helpful ‘easy’ suggestions that involved a needle and thread. ‘Do you sew?’ She asked, regaling me with stories of cloaks and spiders’ webs and easy to make masks. Sew? No, I do not bloody sew. I work. And I have a baby. And I can’t sew. The last time I held a needle in my hand was in Year 8, and it was so long ago it wasn’t even called Textiles but Home Economics. Sewing is not an option.

I ask Child 1 what he wants to go as. He suggests a robot, based on his current favourite of ‘Tin.’ A robot! Excellent, I think. That sounds easy. I google robot costumes and find some on Amazon Prime. Gleeful with relief, I show them to him. ‘Oh no, Mummy,’ he says. ‘The robot has to be round.’ There are, perhaps unsurprisingly, no round robots on Amazon Prime.

I go through his book shelf and he dismisses all of my suggestions, naturally, because, you know, a costume he already has would be much too easy. In desperation, I suggest Toothless, because that’s been our go to for the last three years. He’s willing, but, devastatingly, Toothless no longer fits him.

My Facebook is helpful. Without my Facebook, I’d be dead in the water of World Book Day mothers. There is sympathy, virtual gin, and some helpful suggestions. By the time I have these helpful suggestions, Child 1 is asleep. But time is of the essence, and it’s his own bloody fault that we only have three days, so we wake him up. I suggest Alex Rider, because normal clothes. He says no. I attempt to bribe him with a spy watch I’ve found on Amazon. He is not to be moved by such bribery.

Eventually, I wear him down with my desperation (which no one else at all in the house shares. No one else at all in the house really seems to even care. I am bitter.) and he agrees to being some generic boy character that only involves wearing his own clothes (insert your choice here: Famous Five/ Secret Seven/ Andy Griffiths, etc), possibly just to get rid of me so he can go back to sleep. But I don’t care. I am victorious. I don’t even care that it’s really not getting into the spirit of it all, and I’m an English teacher and everything. I’m way past the spirit of it all.

It’s a costume. Related to books. And I didn’t have to sew it. We’re done.

In the middle of the night I go back on Amazon and buy the spy watch. Just in case. I’m wise to children and costumes and the way of things and their last ditch, last minute desperate pleas. Job done. Now I’m off to find a corner to rock in and quietly contemplate the fact that by having another child I’ve brought at least another five years of World Book Day hell upon myself.

The end of maternity leave

I started my maternity leave almost exactly nine months ago. At the time it seemed like an endless, beautiful stretch of time streaming out in front of me – time to give birth, time to get to know this tiny stranger, time to spend with the other two. I couldn’t remember with any degree of precision my other two maternity leaves (well, one actually: one period of maternity leave began immediately the first one ended- that’s what happens when your second child is born almost exactly a year after the first), only that they were a haze of sleeplessness and small, flailing limbs and soft hair and screaming and crawling and boredom and occasional despair and feeding and cleaning and meal producing and kisses and smiles and, mostly, the sweetest of loves.

This maternity leave has been all this, but it has felt different. Perhaps because I’m so aware that this, this most unexpected and perfect of gifts, is the last. Perhaps because, by comparison to the others, it’s been so short. Perhaps simply because I’ve done it all before. I’ve known this time disappears in the blink of an eye, time rushing away like the tide, and the next time I look up he’ll be a toddler, a little boy on his first day at school. My first maternity leave was a lovely whirl of NCT and lots of babies and coffee and cake. This time around it’s just been me and him, bookended by school runs. My time with him alone has been short, and I have guarded it jealously. We spent mornings pottering, and afternoons asleep, his little face turned into my neck, his soft breaths huffing against my skin, his tiny hand in mine, fingers intertwined. Every morning we took child 1 to school and I listened to spellings and times tables and Minecraft monologues and saw his intent, sweet face in the rear view mirror. ‘I love your face,’ I said every morning to child 1 and every morning he ducked his head and laughed and I stored up these few precious minutes for when I return to work. And every afternoon we would walk up to child 2’s school and wait for her to come flying out of the classroom, hair everywhere, a beaming smile for both of us. Those moments morning and afternoon with the older two have been another lovely, unexpected gift. I will miss them.

And now maternity leave is almost at an end. It seems it has flashed by, those months in which he turned from a fragile, tiny newborn into this, my gorgeous, blue eyed, endlessly smiling boy. He is the loveliest of babies, my sweet third child, with his huge smile and reaching arms and chuckling laugh. The thought of leaving him every day is an impossible one. Leaving him at nursery, watching his face crumple and having to ignore his little arms stretched up towards me, felt as though I was tearing my heart from my chest. I’ve spent eight months making him happy. My every instinct is to protect him, after all, not walk away from him. The gradual detachment process that I know parenting is made up of did not begin so early with the other two- in fact, full time work did not begin for me until they were much older – and my heart, imprinted indelibly as it is with his tiny fingerprints, objects to being apart from him even for a few hours. I’m obsessed with his little face, besotted by his smile, captivated by his soft head beneath my chin. The thought of the majority of my waking hours being spent without him threatens to split me in two.

And yet. I love work. I have missed it. All my adult life work has been a huge part of my identity. Not like being a mother – not like that. Motherhood will always be the greatest part of my self. But being a teacher is a joy and a privilege that I have always been grateful for. Watching a child’s face light up as they grasp a previously seemingly insurmountable concept – that’s wholly worth going to school for. Its the best job in the world. On days when my heart threatens to break over leaving him, my little love, I remind myself that I can be both. Being a mother doesn’t stop me being a good teacher, and being a teacher doesn’t stop me being a good mother. I am fortunate to be able to have both, and to be going back to a new job in a school I love.

And so this time next week when I will have returned to work, and he will have spent the longest period he ever has without me, I will remind myself of this. My maternity leave has been a gift. It has given me the greatest of joy. I have been fortunate every day to have those hours with him. And now it’s time for the next chapter.

Thank you, my littlest one. It’s been the greatest and most wonderful of adventures, suffused at every stage with joy and love. I’ll never forget it.

How far he’s come….

The educational life of an SEND child is often a rollercoaster – it’s sporadic and challenging and changeable and frustrating. Some days it’s two steps forward and you’re celebrating and some days it’s four steps back and you’re cast into gloom again. It’s hard for any child to remain on an even keel at school, and for a child with special or additional educational needs, it’s a constant challenge.

For parents of non SEND children, it can be hard to understand this challenge. It can even be frustrating, because your child comes home talking about little James in the corner who misbehaved ALL day but still got a merit and when your perfectly behaved child didn’t. Or little Charlie on the next table, who didn’t get to go out at lunchtime because he was disruptive but the teacher still took his mother aside at the end of the day to say how well he’d done in the afternoon. Or little Ellie in the next class who got a head teacher award but she was on the thundercloud the week before. It can feel as if your child, hard working and committed as they are, is ignored in favour of these more challenging children. And I get it, I really do. But I also understand that some children face challenges every day that others would never understand.

And the reason I know this is because I have two incredibly different children. Child 2 is a bright, smiley, cheerful child, a little ray of sunshine who is desperate to please her teachers. She works hard and is determined to do well. And I am so proud of her. But she also finds it easy to go into the classroom, sit down, and get on with her work. She has nothing that stops her doing that. Her path at school is smoothed by her own abilities and her determination to triumph and to please. Child 1, bright though he is, finds nothing about school easy. His dyspraxia manifests itself in too many ways for his path to be smooth. He struggles with writing- that cornerstone of education- because of his fine motor control. He struggles with staying on task and focusing because his thoughts are all over the place. (He compares it to having a head full of bouncy balls and he can’t ever capture one- I try to imagine it and try to imagine how he ever stays on task if he feels like that) His processing is slow and his short term memory isn’t as it should be as a result. As with many dyspraxic children, creative writing is a huge problem. He might read four books a week, resulting in an impressive vocabulary, but he finds it difficult to transfer that vocabulary to paper in any kind of creative way. Just writing the answers to sums makes his hand hurt. He can’t hold the pencil as well as other children. He can’t swim after a year of lessons. He can’t ride a bike. Things that come easily to most children – including his sister – are hugely difficult for him.

So our life in education has been that rollercoaster I mentioned. In his time in state education he had two teachers, a SENCO and a TA who really got him – who understood him and that life was hard for him, and I am so grateful to them. But too many others didn’t. Too many teachers are untrained in teaching SEN children. They try, but there are too many children and too little time. Too much to do and too little funding. Too much pressure on writing at an age when some children absolutely can’t cope with it. And poor little Noah sank. He tried, but the bouncy balls in his head stopped him concentrating. He tried, but he couldn’t write anything like the other children of his ability. He tried, but he was misunderstood and became disruptive and difficult. And he began to hate himself, my poor boy who loved to read and play chess and learn. He was trapped in a system that doesn’t allow enough for difference and for children who need more. And he did need more, and the state system could not provide it – lack of funds, lack of expertise, lack of time. It was no one’s fault – except the government, but that’s another story – but he sank. He was in despair. We were all in despair.

It’s been almost two years since we reached rock bottom and he moved schools. Since then, it’s been up and down, as i have come to expect. He has been much happier. That has been the important thing. So much happier. But his problems in the classroom, especially his his writing and inability to focus, have still, at times, dominated his experiences of school.

Then he started year 4, with a new teacher, and his whole life changed.

Last night, he sat down at the table and wrote a piece of creative writing. He got it out of his bag voluntarily, and wrote two long paragraphs in perfectly legible joined up handwriting. He thought about the words he wanted to use. He spelled the words perfectly. He used the word ‘susceptibility’ correctly. He didn’t look up once and he didn’t ask me for any help. The bouncy balls were still.

This morning in the car, he finished learning his tables. In September, he knew only three. Now he knows all twelve, with perfect recall, and at speed. The processing speed that has been so difficult for him is radically better.

In school, working the Montessori way, he completes and finishes his tasks by himself. He is engaged, enthusiastic, committed. He doesn’t need a TA by his side any more, cajoling and persuading. He understands the value of work. Sometimes he comes off task, but the teacher can guide him immediately back on again. She greets me at the door every day, exclaiming in delight about how much he has achieved. Her expectations are high: despite his challenges, he will work as hard as anyone else, and complete the same work as everyone else. She offers support to enable him to do this- she is a tremendously skilled teacher, especially of SEND children – but her expectations means that he rises to them.

The difference in him is profound. He is confident. In some areas, he is skilled and celebrates those skills. In others, he is still behind, but he understands now how to overcome some of those challenges. I don’t know how it happened. I don’t know how he became this different child in education, after years of not coping very well, but I know that he is different.

On the way to school this morning, I asked him what had made the difference. He thought about it for a long time. His teacher, he said. ‘She knows I can do it, Mummy,’ he said. ‘She helps me but she knows I can do it.’ We owe that teacher a great deal.

He has also been given time – time to mature, time to grow up, time to recognise the value of work, in the way that most SEN children, at the mercy of government targets and a new curriculum that asks for so much, so young, do not have. He is fortunate indeed, and it is heart breaking to think of all the little Noahs, unable to do what they are asked and sinking more every year, that exist in education.

There’s a long road ahead, full of ups and downs. He has a long way to go, facing new and different and the same challenges. But today, this week, this month, we’re going to celebrate. We’re going to celebrate what he overcomes every day, the full marks in the spelling tests, the pages of creative writing and cursive hand writing, the newly found love of maths, the commitment and focus, so recently so far out of his reach, and the joy and pride he feels in being able to complete his work. We’re going to celebrate how far he’s come.

The first six months….

I don’t know how it happened, but child 3 is six months old. One moment he was a tiny newborn who refused to be put down, hated the pushchair and lived in the sling, and the next he was a six month old who’s roughly double the size of most other babies his age and is (fortunately for my general health and especially my back) a bit more willing to be apart from me, at least by a few feet. 

What strikes me most about these first six months is that they have been full of contradictions.

 I have loved and feared, fiercely, in pretty much equal measure. 

I’ve watched him sleep, his little face turned towards me, trustingly, and thought I couldn’t bear it, the hugeness of this love. I’ve felt such fear: I’ve seen in my dreams his pushchair plunging beneath the wheels of a passing car, his tiny form slipping from my sleeping grasp, his helpless body falling headlong to the floor from my reaching arms. 

I’ve been elated – how did I manage to create three such perfect little beings? -and  I’ve been terror stricken that the world could get hold of them and harm them beyond measure. 

I’ve been obsessed and I’ve been bored. I’ve felt as though I could never know him too well, be with him too much, have enough time to know and to love him. And I’ve woken to days when the dreary routine of feed, change, get to sleep, feed, change, get to sleep, threatened to overwhelm me with the grinding, hard sameness of it all. 

I’ve wanted to be with him and I’ve wanted to go to work. He has been everything during those daytime hours where it’s just the two of us, my sweet, smiling boy who looks for nothing except me. I’ve felt so lucky to be at home with him and those lazy hours have drifted by, aimless, beautiful hours in which nothing mattered except him. And sometimes those hours have dragged. I feel useful at work. I feel like I’ve achieved things. It’s hard to get to the end of a day in which all I achieved was getting a baby to sleep three times. I missed my students, my friends, the joy of seeing a child’s face light up with getting a concept that previously seemed insurmountable. 

I’ve been a good mother and I’ve been a terrible one. I’ve been patient and I’ve walked the floor and I’ve rocked and pacified and soothed. And in my head I’ve shouted and screamed and begged for sleep. 

I’ve loved the older two beyond all measure as they’ve grown older and wiser and into the most amazing big siblings. And I’ve found them the hardest work imaginable, when all three of them have needed me and I haven’t known where to turn. 

This time, though, these first six months, I’ve cherished all the little moments, as instructed so often in with my first two, and because this time I know they don’t last for ever. This time I know these days melt away into the night, and soon they are weeks, months, years. Soon that baby disappears and in its place comes a person with views and difficulties and strengths and complexities. A person you love with every ounce of your being, with everything you are, but it is, nevertheless, a more complicated love. That first love for your baby is fresh, new, entirely uncomplicated. I have tried to take these moments and box them up, capture them, store them away for ever. Most of all I have tried to take joy in those moments as they happen, clear, shining, sharp. 

They are gone now, those first six months. I’ll never have a newborn again, never feel the tiny grasp of those little fingers around mine, never feel the softness of just-born skin. I’ll never have that curious mix of sleeplessness mixed with absolute euphoria, those nights that I thought would never end, but that I longed to freeze for ever. I’ll never hold a small, wrinkled hand, or nestle a little body inside the sling. 

But instead I have this: this beaming little ray of sunshine who tries to charm everyone with his huge smile. These reaching arms, this face lit up with excitement, this little creature who turns his face into my neck and holds onto me with everything he has. It is an ironic fact of parenthood that while others stop finding your baby, no longer so small and new, so interesting and cute, you love them all the more. He’s a real person now, with his likes and dislikes, his shrieks of excitement and his smiles of joy. He’s resolute, definite, irreplaceable. 

And so, mostly, just as on that very first day, these first six months have been just this: six months of profound, searing, flaying, depthless love. 

Writing her own story…

Child 2 starts a new school tomorrow – her junior school. She’s not a great lover of change, so the road to this beginning has been a little pitted with holes – she has been, by turns, nervous, excited, frightened, enthusiastic, and downright obstructive. But with the help of a couple of trips to Smiggle (brightly coloured stationery hell to the uninitiated), a fluffy rucksack and pencil case, and a unicorn lunchbox, she’s arrived at enthusiasm. And while that enthusiasm is delightful and a relief, it’s also frightening. Because I don’t want it to be crushed or destroyed. She’s easily hurt, my sweet girl, and I don’t want to see it. I want to see her run out of those gates tomorrow afternoon bubbling over with excitement about her first day and all the amazing things they did and all the wonders of a new school. 

Before I was a parent, I thought the hardest part would be the discipline, or the neediness, or all the work. It isn’t any of these things. It’s the ability to let them go, and to know that you can’t control what happens to them after that. I want to get hold of her teacher and beg them to see her, my beautiful, kind, scatty, generous, loving, day dreaming little girl – really see her. I want to gather up all her friends and tell them to be nice, to be kind, to love her.  I want her to be confident, to work hard, to be encouraged. I want nothing terrible to happen to her. I want no one to be unkind to her or to hurt her. I want her to love and be loved, to learn and to be encouraged, to find only the joy in school. I look at her excited little face as she sorts through her new stationery and pencil case for the thousandth time, and I wish her only brightness and wonder. 

But, in this life and any life, this isn’t possible. I can’t protect her from everything. If I did I would be doing her a great disservice. She needs to strong, to be confident, to be sure. Never experiencing adversity will give her none of this. My looking after her and smoothing her path and solving her problems would be wrong. She needs to learn to live for herself. Even on the days I don’t want her to. 

So I will watch her walk away tomorrow, ponytail bouncing, the fluffy  multi coloured rucksack that she is so proud of on her back, her face shining with excitement and youth and hope. I will not acknowledge the part of me that, in letting her go, feels flayed and raw and vulnerable and fearful. I will instead think only of her joy and enthusiasm and a whole new book opening in front of her, its pages as yet clear and untouched and unmarked, ready for her to write her own story.