FIRST DAY BLUES

                                                                                                            

Now that the long school vacation is over, children and teens are heading back to school. It seems like eons ago when my mother held my hand and walked me to Charleston Kindergarten, my very first foray into formal education.

And indeed it was very formal. I was six but I had a lovely blue and white uniform and white socks and white BATA canvas shoes. I learnt very quickly how to wash the shoes once a week and put a layer of chalk over them. So, the shoes were very white and clean on Mondays and quite sad looking by the end of the week.

The more well-to-do kids had several pairs of shoes and their shoes were always very presentable whatever day of the week.

My first reading book was the Man and his Pen. I enjoyed Macmillan’s children’s readers and Mother Goose rhymes and art class. I also liked a smart looking boy who sat three rows in front of me. I found out later that he was the son of the manager of Odeon cinema.

But I was terrified of being called to the front of the class to tell the time by moving the hands of a cardboard clock. I know it is daft because I knew how to tell the time. Maybe it was the fear of making a mistake with so many eyes staring at my back.

I looked forward to recess time where I could play hop scotch, tag or hide and seek and police and thieves. Simple games that involved lots of movement and left us sweaty. I can’t always trust my memory but I don’t remember using a tumbler or a lunch box. Instead my mother had packed for me Milo in a bottle with a screwtop cap . My mum had also made for me a quilted carrier to keep the Milo warm. I also had a packed lunch - rice or sweet buns, never sandwiches.

I loved studying and still do.

It’s strange to see generation after generation of tiny feet entering the hallowed halls in the quest for knowledge. It all seems very different now - heavy school bags, different curricula, different activities.

One thing remains the same: there are those who blend in happily with their new friends and surroundings and there are those who find it traumatic. And it is not always the child.

My friend Alex who works from home is one of them. Surprised to see Alex at the swimming pool the other day, I asked him whether he had taken some time out. He said he had just dropped his youngest at the school gate and with his hand on his chest, he looked downcast. It wasn’t separation anxiety. I think Alex felt the anxiety of letting-go. His baby was taking one step away from him.

He said, ‘I was really looking forward - buying the books, getting everything in order. I even assured Aoife that school would be over before she knew it and she would come home again. 

You know what? 

The moment she reached the school yard, she just waved goodbye to me, walked straight into her class and didn’t look back!’

It was another stage of fatherhood. Aoife had finally joined the ranks of full-time schoolkids. Alex didn’t feel like he had been released from prison to enjoy more me-time, well, not yet anyway. Maybe he felt that his services were no longer needed. Maybe he felt a tinge of betrayal.

Like everything else, adaptation to change takes time. However prepared we are, we can never really anticipate how we feel when the moment arrives.

In situations like this, I dislike others giving me standard responses like ‘Oh, you’ll be grand. It’s just a phase. You’ll get used to it.’ So I refrained from giving him unsolicited advice and trite comments.

Instead I just listened. What he needed was someone to talk to and probably time to adjust to change.

And he knew he had my support.