On the first day he brings home an amazing toilet roll/Malteser box/wool sculpture and I display it proudly … “It’s a nest” he says.

“What did you do today?” I ask him at tea time. “Nuffink” is the reply.  As I explain that there is a ‘th’ and a ‘g’ in ‘nothing I notice his sister looks smug, happy that someone else is getting a grilling for a change.

He says, “I don’t like school”.

The 5 year old, with all her wisdom, tells him “You’ll have to get used to it, you have ‘miles and miles’ to go”.

A Mister Maker special

On the second day, when I take him to nursery, I stay for a few minutes to settle him in. In a plastic apron he lays everything out in the ‘art workshop’ ready to use … a bit like Mister Maker.

When he is settled and happily gluing I tell him I’m going, giving him a kiss and a hug. As I turn to go I hear a little voice say “Mummy”. I turn to see my big tall boy looking lost and slightly panicky, looking up at me with big pleading eyes. He says “Don’t go”, so I stay a bit longer.

Later, as I leave, I gaze through the window at my big tall boy wielding a spatula in his blue plastic apron.  I think about giving up work, somehow spending more time with him.

I could home school.

I could teach my children how to sit on the sofa, how to blog, how to get lost on the way to IKEA, how to complete Mushroom Gorge on Mario Kart, how to bake and burn chocolate peanut butter brownies. I could show them how to buy and sell on ebay, match up socks, load the dishwasher and read Red magazine cover to cover.

No, I could not home school. 

I have to let go, but it hurts.

She has a buddy from Year 6 who helps her with the daunting task of choosing what to eat for lunch in the big hall. I asked the 4 year old what her buddy was like. ‘She’s nice and she’s fat’ she replied. When I met the buddy a few days later I was greeted by a normal sized child. Her cheeks were slightly rounded but she certainly wasn’t of the lardy persuasion. I now wonder how the 4 year old describes me to her new school friends and teachers … ‘My mum is a nice enormous elephant’.

The 2 year old started pre-school in the same week. Pre-school is slightly more traumatic as it’s the first time that most children have been away from their parents for a lengthy time. I walked into pre-school and was hit by a cacophony of wailing children clawing at their mothers as they tried to sprint towards the exit. As I filled in the emergency contact forms the 2 year old wandered off to play. When it was time for me to leave I had trouble locating him, but he was busying himself in the home corner. I gave him a kiss, said goodbye and left. I wandered reluctantly towards the door, turning to make sure he wasn’t chasing me. No, he was offering another howling child a plastic croissant.

The whole thing was an anti-climax. I don’t know what I expected. A little part of me wanted them both to cry and hang on to my trousers whilst I tried to prise their fingers away. I wanted a teacher to hold them back as I sprinted, coat tails flapping in the wind, for the door. I wanted to walk away feeling guilty for abandoning my children, tears streaking my cheeks, wondering if I was doing the right thing. I’d packed a whole packet of bloody tissues!

Does this mean that I’ve done a good job in raising children who are independent and happy to be left with complete strangers (albeit in an educational setting)? Or is it the psychological scarring of watching their mother dance to ‘The Bear Necessities’ naked. Is it because when they stuck raisins up their noses (yes, they have both done it, independently and the 4 year old twice) they still remember me coming toward them with tweezers whilst their father held them down?

I think in all honesty they are just relieved to be with normal people for a few hours each day.