It seems like only yesterday he marched to the school gate for the first time. There were tears. Snot. Wails. But once I got a grip of myself, I waved my five-year-old son off as he sauntered in for his first day of school. I said a silent prayer that he’d make friends. I fervently hoped he wouldn’t be scared. And I seriously wondered if the weight of a backpack that was taller than him would make him topple over like an upturned turtle.
Fast forward seven years, and this week he strode into his primary school leaving dance while trying to ignore the fact that his mother had exactly the same expression she gets when someone dies at the end of Casualty – watery eyes and a petted lip that trembles like an emotionally overwrought guppy fish.
Friends, there’s a new entry in the Little Book of Parental Sighs: That moment when your youngest child leaves primary school and you realise he’s just a few years away from Pot Noodles and living in a bedsit with fourteen student pals.
Sob.
Prior to that tear-jerking, lump-in-throat moment, I’d only considered the plus sides of the situation. No more doing double school runs, now that Low the Younger will be joining his older brother at the big school. No more requirements for me to rustle up 200 woefully inferior fairy cakes for the Christmas party. No more getting up in the morning to those dreaded words, ‘Mum, I need a crocodile/snowman/Scooby Doo costume for school today.’
I’m glad he’s maturing and moving on to exciting stuff. I just hadn’t realised it would come with such an emotional sucker-punch and a deafening snip of yet another apron string being cut.
Speaking from experience, I know what’s ahead of me. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt that says ‘My Kids Love Me – but only if their mates aren’t around’.
If my youngest follows in the size eleven footsteps (yip, size eleven – I’m applying for a lottery grant to keep him in trainers) of his thirteen-year-old brother, the changes will be subtle at first. He’ll no longer give me a kiss when I drop him off in the morning. He’ll see me coming, and immediately go to Defcon One, in case I say or do anything that will cause him embarrassment in front of his chums. And then there’s that physical act that they teach right before assembly on the first day in high school. The adolescent eye roll.
It’s a one-stop gesture, applicable in all instances in which a mother makes gentle reprimands, helpful suggestions, bad jokes, hoovering requests and mutterings involving the words ‘because I said so’.
Right now, my youngest still thinks I know stuff. In approximately six weeks and one day he’ll decide I know nothing at all.
The irony doesn’t escape me. I’ve always encouraged them to be independent. To think for themselves. They’ve been taught to cook, to budget, to keep their rooms on the non-biohazard side of toxic waste.
I’m just not ready for the increase in emotional independence that goes with it.
Look, I’m a mother. Double standards come with the territory.
So, Low the Younger, I’m happy for you, I really am. But you’ll just have to bear with me as I tackle that difficult transition to the next stage of your education.
And in the meantime, just like my primary school graduate, I need to take what I’ve learned over the last few years, and put it in my skill bank in case I need it in the future. If anyone needs help to rustle up a crocodile/snowman/Scooby Doo outfit in an hour and a half, give me a shout.