Getting it Wrong

Sometimes I get it wrong.  Sometimes I get it really wrong.  And sometimes your kids will take you by surprise and make you wonder if you know them at all.  

I am talking, in particular, about Big School and our second son starting. 

Any time it was mentioned, even in passing, he put his cross face on, the thumb went in and he curled up on a chair somewhere to shut out the world. 

I tried not to talk about it much, and whenever it came up, it was all done positively, with great enthusiasm and reminders about how he can have his very own birthday party this year.  He had his graduation from Montessori and when he was asked if he wanted to go in for one morning a week during August, he said he did.  

He went with no issues but reports were coming back to me about how quiet he was and that he seemed to be in bad form.  It had to be the thoughts of big school I told myself.  I couldn’t see any other reason for it. 

Again I didn’t talk much about his going but soon it was a week away and we had to start the countdown.  The uniform had been tried on - by his own instigation and he seemed pleased enough with himself. There was a smidgen of excitement about getting new runners and his nana had given him a brand new school bag.  

The day before Big School started back I had a lump of concrete in my chest.  I came close to tears several times from stress and was dreading the next morning.  Not for him starting school but the manic mornings and their return.  Somehow it seemed easier when there was only one of them to get ready for school.  Their school day was also starting ten minutes earlier which made me think of how getting out the door for 8.30am previously, to make the bus, was a struggle most days.  This year I have opted for doing the school runs myself as I still have to take them to the bus stop anyway.  I feel I may as well take them the whole way in. 

As I kissed them all goodnight that evening, I reminded Iarla that there was school in the morning. 

“Am I not going to Montessori?” 

Oh, crap sticks!!!!!  The lump of cement hurtled towards my stomach. 

Why, oh why, when we were doing the countdown to school, did I not call it the countdown to big school?  Why did I not think to differentiate between Montessori and his new school? 

Fully prepared and waiting for a howl of shock, I decided the best course of action here was to come clean. 

“No, Iarla.”  I was almost whispering, begging that he wouldn’t freak out on me.  “You’re going to big school in the morning.”  

There was a seconds delay and then the breath was squashed out of me as little arms reached up and grabbed me around the neck, pulling me down to hug him.  Was he delighted?  Shocked?  In fear? 

But he was grinning.  I could feel it.  

I pulled away and sure enough, he was all smiles.  He even looked a bit excited!  

I hardly dared hope and being the pessimist that I am, I told myself the morning could bring a different reaction.  

The tension and concrete block were still there alright but the boys seemed bright enough.  All good so far. And it got better.  

He couldn’t wait to get his uniform on and he was the first one in the car waiting for the others.  Walking towards the school gates, he was yards ahead of us at all times. 

We got into the classroom and he found a seat he liked the look of pretty quickly.   We got his name tag from Muinteoir Maire Dolores and he got back to the box of stickle bricks on his desk.

I couldn’t believe it.  Not a tear.  From either of us. 

I checked that he knew where the bathroom was and he told me he remembered from “the last day.”  

We put his school bag underneath his seat, I kissed him, reminded him I’d be back to collect him and I left. 

When I picked him up at midday, his words tripped over each other in order to get out and tell me what kind of a day he’d had. 

“Sit down with me, Mammy and I’ll tell you everything.”  Words such as those never left his lips before, even when he visited Santy land and I didn’t go.  Even when he had his grommets fitted and I didn’t bring him.

I didn’t need to be asked twice.  He told me he didn’t need to use the bathroom and he couldn’t find Conor in the playground. 

Mistake number one from me:  I asked him what he did in the playground.  If you think you won’t like an answer, don’t ask the question.  “I walked round all by myself, Mammy. I didn’t know what to do and then we had to go back in.” 

You can imagine the picture I had in my head when he told me that.  

“I nearly cried too, Mammy.”  

You know the way your heart feels when your child says something like this?  I had to hear more.  I was compelled.  

“How did you stop yourself?”  

“I did this, Mammy.”  And he rubbed his eyes furiously with his fists.

I was in bits!  But he was on to the next item on his agenda. 

There was a small complaint.  I didn’t give him enough food for his little break.  He didn’t have the same as “all of his friends.”   

 I resolved to remedy that the next day: tracksuit day.  He was very eager to wear it plus his new flashing lights runners.  There was the same half walk half race approach to the school gate as the previous day and I spent even less time with him in his classroom before I left.  

For the last two years he has had to watch his older brother come out of that school every Friday with a lollipop in his hand and the delight on his face when he ran out to meet me, clutching his own.  I despise lollipops and the destruction they wreak on teeth but this was a very special day. 

I couldn’t leave it alone over the weekend.  He seemed so happy and content in his new environment. 

The hour in between school pick-ups was lovely as he had me all to himself and was able to tell me all about his day without his older brother being present to join in.  He almost seemed like a different child.  He was stringing sentences together as fast as he could, words tumbling out of him, eager to talk and share his day.  

And then it hit me. 

Maybe he was actually ready for this step. 

Maybe he was ready to move on from Montessori and to a new challenge.  To make new friends, to broaden his horizons a little bit. 

Maybe he was bored over the summer, bored at Montessori especially as his friends had moved on and he was there by himself.  Maybe he was actually enjoying this new challenge.  It is his own place.  Away from me, away from Conor.  

This time I am glad I got it wrong.  Glad my boy proved me wrong.  There was even a modicum of annoyance when he realised it was Friday and school was out for the weekend.  A very good sign indeed.  But at lunch time on Monday, there was talk of a different nature. 

Were you ever sorry you asked a question? 

“How did you get on today, Iarla?” 

“I miss my old friends.  And I missed you a bit today, Mammy.  And I cried.”  

The concrete block was back.  

“Did you?  When?” 

“When you left.  Muinteoir came over to me.  I can’t remember what she said.  I cried for a little bit and then I cried again.”  

Jesus, don’t be telling me this!  

“And I was by myself in the yard.  A boy wouldn’t let me play football with him.”  

 If there was there ever a time for time travel, it was then.  All I could say to him was that it’s ok to miss me and it’s ok to cry too.

“I know, Mammy.  Lots of us were doing it today.”  The thumb was in, he was looking out of the window and had moved on to something, somewhere else, his acorn, the one he had forgotten to bring home on Friday, clutched in his hand. 

Sometimes I think there should be lessons for parents in how to cope during times like this. Suppose I’d better get used to the comings and goings of that cement block.  As long as it gets chipped away, I won’t hold too much against it!      

A Weighty Issue

How many times have you put your back to the wall somewhere for no reason other than to get rid of that wedgie?  Go on, admit it.  You’ve done it, haven’t you?  Sidled up alongside a tree or a fridge in the frozen food aisle in the supermarket for that one second of privacy.  Sometimes I don’t even bother disguising the fact I am freeing my underpants from the confines of my bum.  I just think fek it; it’s hardly going to be dinner table conversation fodder later on, is it, if someone sees me? And anyway, I’ve given birth four times, count them, four, nothing embarrasses me now.  I remember a time when I thought one of the most mortifying things that could happen to me was to leave a public bathroom with a length of tissue paper stuck to my shoe.  I tripped over my own feet once, walking down the street.  It didn’t cross my mind that I may have hurt myself, (I didn’t) but I did want the ground to open up and swallow me.  I used to live in real fear that I would accidentally tuck my skirt into my knickers on leaving the bathroom.  That never happened.  (Whew!) But I did manage to walk from one end of a busy pub to the other at a work do once, with my top open and I wasn’t even drunk.  These days I get up to all sorts of compromising shenanigans and it doesn’t bother me in the least who might be watching or disapprove.  BC (Before Childers) a long time BC, a good friend who did have a childer, told me you leave your dignity outside the door when you give birth.  I have to say I would agree with her although I wouldn’t be of the opinion there is anything embarrassing about giving birth. But I have been caught out on a couple of occasions when it comes to breastfeeding.  Nothing controversial, all extremely normal behaviour altogether, but conduct that normally would be carried out behind closed doors.  Like expressing breast milk for example.    There was a touch of conjunctivitis in the house last winter.   Breast milk is utterly fantastic for clearing up this sticky little nuisance so I was kilt hand expressing for the Screecher Creatures.  We took one of our family trips to Dundrum shopping centre and on the way home, on the motorway, Mister Husband reckoned his eyes were starting to feel itchy.  Being the good Wonderful Wagon Wife that I am, I embarked on an extraction mission.  It really doesn’t take long to produce a sufficient amount of milk for such a small job so he could have waited a bit longer before pulling in alongside a huge JJ Kavanagh bus. I looked up in slow motion to see about 3 people looking down and in on me as I extracted a few precious drops of milk from my left boob. So if that was you, hellooooo.  I used to have another little breastfeeding ritual.  One that is not all that uncommon and a practice carried out by a large majority of breastfeeding mothers.  We “weigh” ourselves.  Several times a day and no bother to us.  I’m not checking to see if I gained or lost poundage, although I do that too.   I had a habit of “weighing” my boobs before a feed.  I could never remember from which side a Screecher Creature fed last so I checked by “weighing” myself. And I did this how?  Well, I suppose I copped a quick feel, didn’t I?  It was so automatic and quick that I’m sure people didn’t even realise I was doing it. And if they did, well it certainly didn’t bother me.  Now that my breastfeeding days are over, I am a little surprised at how quickly I have adapted.  My sister in law was feeding her daughter over the weekend and she asked me did I miss it.  I answered honestly, no.  I don’t miss it but at the same time I was fully prepared and for some reason, expecting, to feed our youngest right up to his second birthday and after if he so wished.  He didn’t wish.  None of our boys have any recollection of being breastfed but I hope at least two of them will remember me feeding the youngest.  The youngest himself, at coming up on 17 months of age, has it all forgotten about.  When I think back on the way it used to be.  Mister Husband would come into the bedroom and bang the door off the laundry basket.  For good measure he often gave it a bit of a kick as it was usually dark and visibility poor.  Then his belt buckle would hit the floor with a metal clink, followed by two heavy thunks as the boots followed.  Next, a massive creak as he sat on the side of the bed and finally, in under the covers with a huge sigh of satisfaction.  Screecher Creature No. 4, who shares our room, never stirred.  His breathing didn’t even change.  On the other hand, when I walked into the room, in my bare feet, without making a single sound, before I even got to “my” side of the bed, he would wake up; let out a yelp, scramble to his feet and hang over the side of the cot already starting to roar.  In general, acting like he was half starved.  I swear to god he could smell me.  These days when I cuddle him in close he doesn’t even slightly turn his head towards my breast.  Once upon a time, a complete stranger would have been treated to a root from him, now he prefers his thumb.  How things have changed.  There is a certain freedom too.  My body is entirely my own again and this I love.  I can now leave the house and be assured in the knowledge that he doesn’t need me for naps or bedtime.  And the general public can breathe a sigh of relief because I won’t be “weighing” myself any more either.  The wedgies however, depending on the trousers I wear, are here for keeps! 

Eleanor

The first time I met my I-didn’t-know-it-at-the-time-but-she-was-my-future-mother-in-law, mother in law, I had a mad head of curly hair which I hated.  It was torturous getting my hair brushed every morning.  I absolutely hated it and insisted the first chance I got; it was all going to be chopped off.  Eleanor was a hairdresser and I couldn’t believe my luck when I found myself sitting on a chair in her kitchen at approximately six years of age.  It was looking very likely indeed that I was about to be shorn.  And shorn I was.  Funnily enough the curls never came back.  In their place I got thick, straight hair that likes to frizz unnaturally in the damp weather.  How and ever, I was delighted with myself.  No more rows in the morning with my mother and her hairbrush.  Because we lived just down the road from Eleanor, my mother and grandmother were regular clients.  I say regular because my mother is blessed, although she says cursed, with a head of hair that doesn’t get six weeks out of a trim, and for years my sisters and I were bombarded with stories about “The Dooley’s” and what they did and didn’t do.  Straight away we didn’t like them.  They sounded like right lick arses.  The Dooley’s made their beds every morning.  The Dooley’s had chores which they did every day without complaining.  The Dooley’s got perfect marks in their tests in school.  In fact, the only reason The Dooley’s lost marks was because they didn’t dot their i’s and cross their t’s.  The Dooley’s gave up sweets for all of Lent and didn’t give out about it!!!!!   What The Dooley’s didn’t do, wasn’t worth mentioning.  We felt sorry for them.  It sounded like their mammy was very, very cross. To this day one of my smart arse sisters refers to them as the Walton’s and us as The Dingles.   I met Eleanor lots of times after that; at the usual First Holy Communions and Confirmations as both families had kids of the same age.   And yes, I was scared of her.  I was slightly older the next time I met Eleanor.  She was beating the crap out of a lump of steak with one of those wooden meat hammers and I had just started going out with her son, the now Mister Husband.    In my ignorance I had no idea she was tenderising a piece of meat. I thought she was just having a bad day.  Like I said I was still scared of her.  Childhood fears are hard to erase.   This was to be the first of many times I saw her man handling a side of animal.  Her culinary skills were second to none. The first time I was invited to Sunday dinner with the Dooley family, I almost had a cow man.  There was a strong and lively rumour amongst our crowd that the Dooley family used silver service on Sundays and dress was more formal than casual.  Apparently they also drank wine.  Beef Wellington was on the menu; something I had never even heard of, let alone tasted.  (There was no silver service, dress was casual, dinner was delicious and the craic was mighty!) Over the next few years, I was without doubt firmly integrated into the Dooley circle.  Their home had an open door policy and it didn’t matter who showed up, there was always room at the inn for the night and at the table for dinner. There were even one or two small little parties held when the cats were away but ssshhhh don’t tell anyone!  And when the cats were there, I have strong and abiding memories of blow up beds scattered on every floor surface available and inert bodies on couches and chairs.  The younger ones weren’t the only ones dancing in the sitting room at the Dooley parties; Eleanor had a habit of grabbing the partners of her daughters and hauling them onto the floor for an Elvis jive.  Those were the good memories.  Some fantastic memories are when Mister Nearly Husband and I came home early that Friday night in December with The Ring.  Eleanor and Michael were married after a six month courtship and Mister Husband would have preferred the same. But Eleanor got a stubborn and cautious daughter-in-law with me and it was five years to the day later, when she saw me walk down the aisle to join her son in matrimony.   Nothing was ever said, but I’m sure she was counting the days till she would become a grandmother.  Again, I made her, everyone, wait.  Mister Husband and I were waiting in the kitchen as his parents came home from a day out.  We handed her a trinket that read “World’s Greatest Grandma” and waited for realisation to dawn.   The next time she hugged me that hard was when I was on my hospital bed, hours after giving birth to her grandson, indeed, her first grandchild.  Tears streaming down her face; she had no words.  The next few years are a bit of a blur as I was so busy with the babies that followed but I always remember the gatherings in the Dooley house for special celebrations.  It didn’t matter how big or how small the occasion, there was always a homemade cake or two to mark it.  Eleanor never allowed one to pass.  Then Eleanor got sick.  At first it was a shoulder problem and she underwent surgery to correct this.  She lost her voice then and after undergoing further tests, spots were found on her lungs.  Eleanor had cancer.  It was a long and difficult year; for each step forward, there seemed to be two steps back.  The last time I saw Eleanor it was when she came to our house for a small barbeque.  It was nothing like the bashes she and Michael used to host but it was lovely.  I am so glad the last memory I have of her is in my back garden, smiling and laughing with our kids, her grandsons, running around.    Eleanor died on Saturday 18^th August 2012.    Again, her house was opened to family and friends alike and they came in their droves to say goodbye.  She is gone yet she is everywhere.  She will never be forgotten.    

School Daze

Finally.  A question I could get on board with:  “Mammy will you tell me about school?”  You have no idea how glad I was to hear this.  Our second son will be starting Big School in a matter of weeks and I am a little apprehensive to say the least.  I do not let him sense this although some say he will feel my tension regardless.  Every time I see a magazine displaying the tag line “First Day at School – How to Make it Easier,” I swipe it up utterly convinced that this time I am going to read something of worth, that there will be a nugget of information within that I haven’t read before or thought of myself.  But it is yet another advice piece that doesn’t deliver.  More common sense wrapped up as advice about leaving out the child’s uniform the night before, getting everyone up a little bit early so there is no mad rush out the door at the last minute and giving your child a nice piece of fruit to ease them into their new experience.  Come on!  I want information on how to deal with the child who makes like an ostrich and sticks his head firmly in the sand and blocks out the New Experience. I want counsel on how to discreetly and politely intercept people before they ask him “are you looking forward to big school?” when I know the thumb being shoved into his mouth is not only his way of self-soothing but it is also a stopper; his method of holding everything in.  I can tell by the scowl that knits his eyebrows together and how his eyes search for something to stare at on the ground.  Anything other than respond to the question or even face up to this new and scary stage in his life.  The unknown.   How do you prepare a child for going from just 10 people in his class to 30 and he won’t know any of them?  What about the playground?  There will be no swings and slides in this one.  How do I tell him that and watch him deal with the disappointment of it?  I know he’s stressed about Big School.  He hasn’t said as much but subconsciously he is fretting about it.  God only knows what’s going through his head.  I’d love to get in there at times like this.  His older brother was helpfully telling him about the adventures on the school bus and the newbie built it up, exaggerated it into something completely different involving someone stealing his schoolbag and refusing to give it back.  He broke down in tears earlier on this summer when the penny dropped and he realised he was not going back to Montessori.  Despite me telling him this several times before he finished up.    I’ve done everything the useless magazine article suggested.  He’s been to his open afternoon.  He has not one but two school bags to choose from.  He also selected his own “easy open” lunch box.  He’s aware that his new school books will be arriving any day now and he will get a chance to look at them. Then we will try on his uniform and get him his very much coveted new runners and boring old black shoes.  But we would do all of this anyway, without being helpfully advised by an article.  I want my money back!  I see so much of me in him sometimes.  I am very attached to my own comfort zones.  I am not a big fan of taking a risk.  I like to know what to expect going into a new situation be it social or a working one.  Iarla likes his own space as do I.  I’ve often done a quick head count when we are in the park or another busy environment and there he is, in the thick of it with the others.  But seconds later he could disappear.  Gone off by himself to play in the dirt or if we’re at home, come into the house just to curl up on a chair, and suck his thumb.  Taking some time out to regroup and escape from the hubbub.  It’s almost a form of sensory over load and when it becomes too much for him, he removes himself from the situation.  He won’t be able to do that in Big School.   He’s a sensitive soul and can take even the most innocent remark to heart.  I am dreading the inevitable day he comes home in the horrors because a class mate or even his teacher, commented on his thumb sucking.  He will be embarrassed and retire into himself.  He does not like it when people draw attention to him.    So I was thrilled when he asked me to tell him a story about school.   This was the perfect opportunity to describe everything to him. Big brother was present and all set to offer his two pence worth.  When I stopped him he insisted he had something of great importance to impart, something I neglected to tell him on his big day.  This was, to wait until your teacher tells you it is time to eat and don’t just start eating your lunch yourself.  His lower lip began to quiver as he told me Reuben had to tell him to put his banana away; it wasn’t time to eat yet.  “Because you never told me that, Mammy.”   See how they remember even the tiniest little thing?  So magazine editors the country over who are looking for Ways to Ease Them into Big School, tell your readers to Talk to Them about It.  Don’t assume they know what to expect even if they have spent the last four and a half years in Montessori.  Make sure they know where the bathroom is.  What happens if there are three Spiderman bags?  Maybe stick a key-ring on his bag.  What about their gorgeous new coat and shoes with the lovely laces?  It’s not a bad idea that they are able to manage their coat and maybe stick to the Velcro-ed shoes until they master the art of lace tying.  Yogurts?  I can still remember spilling the contents of mine all over my lovely muck brown trousers in Junior Infants.  I was left sitting in it all day and felt awful.  What if they are too shy to approach the strange lady they will come to call Teacher if they can’t open their brand new cartoon character emblazoned lunch box? I think one of the most important ones is to tell them that you will be back to collect them.  And make sure you are not late.  There are lots of different ways to help ease them into their new environment and very hard to remember it all.  Like reminding your child they need to wait until teacher tells them it is break time before they tuck into the contents of their new lunch box.  Oops!  Every child is different.  Our oldest boy had nary a problem or worry about his place of education and indeed has gone on to make a very wide and varied circle of friends. Looking back, I had similar concerns when he started.  He will be fine, I know he will.  I hoped back then, and still do, that if there is any upset, it will be in the early days and not after the first mid-term break.    We just, both of us, need to get over the first hurdle together.  Like every other event I was apprehensive about, I found the reality of it easier than the perception and with a little dollop of luck, Big School for our second son, won’t be any different.