Monday, 1 September 2008

Not long now.....

It seems as though we're destined not to find a weekend retreat. It was all too depressing yesterday - the house looked lovely from the outside but inside it looked most unlovely. In fact, I was so depressed about it I made David stop off at Pizza Hut in Surrey Quays and ate a small Italian meat feast on the way home.

But to matters more interesting. Mac is now beside himself with excitement at the prospect of starting Big School on Wednesday and wants it "to be Wednesday now". I, on the other hand, am weeping and wailing (silently, I don't want to scar him for life by being a Clingy Mother) and trying to swallow the great big lump that's formed in my throat. "It's not as if he hasn't been at nursery for the past year" my oh-so practical husband pointed out when he found me crying over the highly polished "proper" black school shoes yesterday. That's not the point I said in muted tones - he was at nursery, now he's at school. There's a difference.

Nursery means Story Time on the Story Mat, Colouring in with Crayons and, for those that wanted it, Afternoon Naps in the Rest Room. School means Numbers and Learning and Break Time Without Orange Juice and Rich Tea Biscuits. I'm worried he won't like it, he'll have no friends, he'll hate his teacher or he'll get bullied. David is convinced that he'll love it, he'll have loads of friends, he'll adore his teacher and that he's too nice to be bullied. David also sees the glass as half full, not half empty.

I'm distracted to the point of distraction and find myself unable to think past Wednesday morning at 8.45am. Janey rang this morning to talk about the christening "do" on Sunday and I was very snappy with her. "Oh God, you're not sending him off to war, you'll be five minutes drive away from him!" she said when I revealed my problem. Auntie Ivy's problem is more pressing - she failed her driving test earlier today and, when driving home and in mid flow of what she thought went wrong on her test, wrote off the driving school car when she mounted the pavement and smashed into a bollard. Her instructor, a "gentle man called Steve", cried like a baby. "He'd only had the car a week apparently" Ivy said when I rang to see if she was okay.

Undeterred, she's signed up with another driving school for an intensive course and has put in for her test again.

4 comments:

Elsie Button said...

it must be a very emotional time. I already think about this moment coming, when Betty starts school, and she isn't even two yet.

bloody hell - writing the car off! - that is bad!

Potty Mummy said...

Would love to make a helpful suggestion on the first day thing - but if you read my recent post, you'll know that it wouldn't be worth the paper (!) it was written on...

Working mum said...

I can so identify with this one!

I've been worrying about daughter starting school on Thursday, husband says "She's been at nursery for the last year" (sound familiar?). I wail, "But it wasn't a full day, she was used to going to the childminder's and watching TV while eating second breakfast, she always had lunch with her, how will she cope?"

He says "She'll be fine"!!

Men!

aims said...

I see moms all over blogland crying about their children going back to school - even high school!

My goodness - what happens when they leave home?

My mother never said a word when I left at the age of 15. However - when my brother left to go to university - she sobbed!

I guess it's in all mothers. I've never had the opportunity to be one so can only view it from out here in the lonely world that I have without children to keep me company. Sigh... :0)

Drats on the weekend retreat house thing. I really had my hopes up for you! Double drats!

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Nunhead, London, United Kingdom
I'm a mum of one, wife of one and owner to several dogs, a variety of breeds and sizes. I live in the up and coming area (or so they say) of Nunhead and have mad neighbours, strange friends and certifiable relatives. I shop locally, although I do defect to Sainsburys once a week - shoot me now local shopkeepers.