My youngest, my baby, started school today.
Despite the (very big) part of me which has been waiting for this moment for six weeks (/four years) I would be lying if I said I haven’t been worrying about it ever so slightly.
I may have been here before but it’s very different; his sister was so, so ready for school.
Quite honestly, she would have been ready the year before she started. When all of her pre-school friends headed off across the playground to Big School she was quite annoyed that she wasn’t with them.
She was almost five when she finally went; a confident, diplomatic (some would say ever so slightly manipulative…) little girl who threw herself into everything and made friends very easily.
She could do every item on ‘the ready for school list’ including writing her name perfectly, and had been totally pee-in-pants free for well over two years.
Starting school for her was an absolute breeze. The odd emotional moment maybe, but only really from me. She’s skipped in every day without so much as a whinge.
In contrast, my smallest will be one of the youngest in his year, having only just turned 4 years old.
To be honest, his emotions are all over the place still; especially when he’s tired, which he always is from waking up so bastard early every day (still). Or on alternate Tuesdays if I try to give him the wrong shaped pasta like the monster of a parent I am.
Boys lag behind girls anyway, so I’m told, and added to that he’s left handed (nope, no idea where he gets that from) and writes his name backwards at least 50% of the time. It’s clever – even I can’t do that – but probably not what they’re looking for.
He seems so small; I can still carry him about (I prefer not to, by quite a margin, but I can). He barely fills his new size 8 school shoes.
Two minutes ago he was a toddler, and now he has to wear a uniform and it’s stupidly big because everything is stupidly big on him. Why can’t the supermarkets sell school shorts in 2-3? The elastic is done up so tightly and they’ll still be around his ankles by the end of the day.
I know in my heart that he will be fine, and that school is the best place he could be.
I couldn’t hold him back; he drives me absolutely barmy at home. He may not be at the top of the class for his academic prowess (which is a big word for a four year old, but you know what I mean) or his emotional stability, but I’m sure the teachers will be used to a whole range of abilities; not everyone can be the oldest in the class. Right?
He’ll thrive, once he settles in to the new routine. He is a very clever little boy (after all, he’s 50% my genetics so he’s got a good chance, right?!), he likes numbers, and letters, he knows exactly which Disney cards he already has and which ones he still needs to collect and can probably name more dinosaurs than most palaeontologists. I am quite sure will surprise us in a lot of ways.
Luckily, with help from his big sister and assurances from her that she’ll meet him in the playground, he’s been really looking forward to school, which bodes well (at the moment at least).
He went into his class willingly; yes he had a bit of a worried look as he clutched his new book bag, but he’s had that look forever so it’s hard to tell.
As I sit here though, drinking my first childfree cup of tea of the school year, there are a few tears threatening.
It’s only three hours, but I am on edge and full of nerves.
… Maybe it is in fact me that’s not ready?