One huge step for son, one giant leap for mum

Today is a landmark day. It is my littlest boy's first trial session at big school. He's been ready for this day for a full year to be honest, I certainly have been, but now that it's arrived I find myself in tears.

He woke up this morning, with ants in his pants and brimming with excitement. Displaying no first day nerves, he managed to scoff down three pieces of toast and a bowl of strawberries before shooting upstairs to clean his teeth, make his bed and get himself dressed in his big school uniform - all before 7.30am. With no nagging. Remarkable.

Seeing him in his little grey shorts and school shirt, knobbly knees on show, hair sticking up in all directions, I just wanted to grab hold of him and never let go. There he stood, my baby, tucking his shirt in so that he looked smart, brimming with confidence, ready to take on the world. That feeling right then - that love and pride and sadness and joy - all rolled into one is what it means to be a mother.

As we approached the school to drop off his brother, his confidence gave way as people started to comment on how smart and grown up he looked. The more people looked at him, the more he burrowed into my thigh, blushing furiously and looking as though he wished the ground would swallow him.

Then we had a repeat performance as I dropped him at pre-school. You could tell that he and his little friend were torn between being super proud of their big boy uniforms, wanting to show them off, and not wanting all the attention that was coming their way.

I'll be taking him to school after lunchtime for his first taste of the next 12 years of his life. I know it will be an easier transition than I had for son1, who had to face a complete unknown while suffering from an extreme fear of new situations. You can read about that joyous day here. But it's still a huge step for a little person and I sense there will be some clinging later.

However, while it might be one huge step for son, it's a giant leap for mum. Very, very soon I will officially have two school aged children. I'll no longer be the mum to a baby, toddler or pre-schooler. Life should in theory get easier.

But I still can't help feeling sad. The worst part is that I know these feelings are so utterly unoriginal. Most mothers feel this way when their youngest child heads off to big school. It's just another rite of passage you go through. It's not unusual or earth shattering. It just is. Doesn't make it any easier to deal with though.

So I've tried to think about why it feels so sad. It's not that I wish for another baby. I'm definitely a mother who enjoys her children more as they get older. I didn't do the baby thing well. But watching children grow up really emphasises how fast the years gallop by. You get them for such a fleeting time. This journey of motherhood is short but extremely intense.

Every new step they take is worth celebrating - whether its with tears of happiness or sadness - because it's not just their chance to experience something new or leave behind something old, it's yours too. So to all the mums out there with littlies going off to big school soon, live the experience to the full. Because it's part of your life journey too.

I might just stock up on tissues for the beginning of September. I think I'm going to need them.

It was all going extremely very well.

I was having such a good day. Seriously. I could almost imagine my husband calling me from whichever European country he is in today and me telling him what a glorious day I'd had. I'd be positive, without a single moan. He'd realise what a lovely wife he has and return home laden with Parisian pastries.

But I'm not sure I can now. Things went awry late afternoon....(insert twinkly going back in time music here with cloudy edges around your peripheral vision - ala Balamory)

I started out triumphantly. Not only did I manage to make a cottage pie before 7am in a bid to get a headstart on dinner, I also managed to clean the kitchen, do laundry, catch up on email and get the children fed, dressed and out the house all without raising my voice once.

Then I was brave enough to ask someone to fetch son 2 from pre-school so that I could attend son 1's school poetry event. That person kindly agreed and I was filled with a warm feeling that I am at last getting to REALLY know people here. Know them well enough to do me a favour. I actually felt deeply, seriously part of a community. In my advancing years, this is something that is becoming increasingly important to me. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because I grew up in a small village where you knew everybody's names (including all children and dogs) and everybody's business. You couldn't go for a walk along the towpath without stopping for a chat and very often a quiet beer (obviously as a child I wasn't the one drinking the beer. I was the one fetching it.) I think I'm trying to recreate that, only now I'd like to be the one drinking the beer.

I had a triumphant day at work where I think I might finally be on the cusp of doing some PR with a celebrity. It's a heady experience for me. I don't really do celebrities. I don't read Heat magazine (sorry Katyboo) and I'm not particularly clued up on who's gained a pound or dropped twins and is back in a size 0. So this is all very new and exciting. I also managed to speak to a solicitor who will help me get some proper, grown up contracts in place and he won't charge me the earth to do it. I got sent my business plan from Business Link and it all looks do-able if a little heavy on red tape. I was super proactive on almost everything in fact and came away feeling as though several of my to do things are now ticked. Always satisfying.

I then scuttled off to watch the poetry thingy at the school. I hid behind the other parents so my son couldn't see me and melt into tears. He joined in very well wearing a cardboard hat that I think was meant to be bear ears as they had to recite a poem about honey. It was very sweet and it made me feel all boingy.

I then got to have a cup of tea with the lovely lady who fetched son 2, which just helped rekindle my feelings of community love. And we all traipsed home to have a story and a box of smarties - because I was feeling benevolent.

Next up I did something I've been meaning to do for months. I called the tumble dryer company to let them know that although our machine tumbled, it didn't dry. The girl on the phone was about as clueless about tumble dryers as I am but she suggested that maybe I check the lint filter. I told her I cleared it after every cycle. But I did say that I didn't think it fitted in the slot very well. She suggested I might want to check it. I plunged my hands into the murky depths of the tumble dryer lint slot and discovered to my horror, a lifetime supply of lint that had squeezed through the ill-fitting lint liner. I told the lady I'd call her back. I then got a wooden spoon and spent several satisfying minutes fishing lint out and at last pulled out an inch size wooden block, which was the cause of the lint thingy not fitting. I felt like a genius (it really doesn't take much) knowing that I had solved a niggling problem and saved myself lots of money in the process.

By this point I was positively radiating good thoughts. However, it all came crashing down around us when son 2 refused to eat the cottage pie because it was 'gusting' and son 1 refused to eat the cottage pie because 'he hates it.' This resulted in quite a lot of bad behaviour - including my own in which I had to prove that it wasn't disgusting and ate enough for three people.

We moved up to the bath and son 1 decided it was appropriate to spit his toothpaste bubbles in his brother's eye. This was not a game. It was malicious. He was duly dealt with by being removed from the bath and plonked in his room. This was his cue to turn on the booster volume knob and let loose his lungs. Just when we thought it couldn't get worse, we discovered a small pile of half chewed olives that son 1 had left lying on son 2's bed. When I asked son 1 to pick them up and put them in the bin, you would have thought that I was actually asking him to fish maggots from the recycling bin and eat them.

And so the screaming continued. And little by little my shiny, happy glow got yelled out. Worst of all, I vowed and promised, promised and swore that tonight I would absolutely, definitely not be having a glass of wine. Whose dumb idea was that anyway? Not sure whether to be resolute and feel virtuous in the morning or simply say, sod it. I think I know which one I'm plumping for.

Big school - destiny awaits

So in just two days time, child number 1 will be entering the world of formal education. He's starting Big School. It's going to be an emotional day for both of us. I was in tears just looking at him in his uniform, which I finally managed to convince him to try on and remarkably it all fit him (well fit in an everything-is-too-big-but-will-last-him-for-several-years kind of way).

My son isn't overly fond of trying new things. His trial sessions were fairly fraught. So I've been trying to gently ease him into the notion that very, very soon he'll be heading off to school from which there will be no escape for at least 14 years (poor sod). Obviously I haven't told him that part. I think he thinks Big School = a fun day out, a once off, like going to Legoland. I fear that the novelty of it all might wear off after day two when he realises that he can't just stay at home (I'm not cut out for home schooling I'm afraid) and that he does have to wear the uniform every single day.

So in my bid to make school seem lovely, which it will be, we've done things like:

• a pretend walk to school with him leading the way and being allowed to scornfully tell his younger brother that he's too small to go there
• we've bought Lightening McQueen pencils and eraser to put in his new school suitcase even though I'm fairly sure we don't need to provide pencils. I needed an incentive to get him to agree to carry the school bag. He wanted a Power Ranger bag. Instead he got a navy blue one with the school logo on it. Not quite the same cool factor.
• we've been onto the school's website. For a teeny tiny village school (only 45 pupils) it is incredibly high-tech. We've been told that the children will each be given a user name and password so that they can download their homework from the website. Things certainly have changed since the days when I was at school and a computer was the large box in the 'media centre' that was largely used to catalogue the library books. The school website has fun animated little creatures on it for each class, with the names of the children (first names only) in each class listed. My son's name is up there, along with the 6 classmates starting with him. We've gone through the list pointing out which kids he already knows. He's now obsessed with the website and nags at any opportunity to go back onto it.
• We've looked at the school dinners menu to determine whether he wants to have packed lunch or not. He wants packed lunch. I want not. I think the school meals sound fab and had I known it provided such sumptuous faire, I would be down there on a daily basis ordering a take away.

So we're pretty much set. Except for one small thing which I forgot. Name tags. I have them. I've just not done anything with them. I don't sew. In fact I do nothing that requires fiddly little things, using hands or anything needing patience. I have the iron-on variety. So this evening my joyous task is to iron little lables onto about 8 shirts, two pairs of trousers, two pairs of shorts, seven pairs of socks, two sweatshirts and a school bag. As I have lost the instructions on how to do this, I think I might end up with an iron featuring blobs of melted plastic and clothes bearing scorch marks.

Tomorrow night, I get to create the perfect first day at school lunch box. This takes A LOT of thought. It has to look tempting (ideally with lots of colourful, cartoon infested packaging) but must be healthy, should look organic, be filling and easy to eat. Hence the fact that I'm leaning towards school dinners.

And then on Thursday, I get to march my wee man to his academic destiny, where hopefully he will learn how to spell a word other than pig (because that and his name are his current repetoire). Wish me luck.

Teacher's present etiquette. Why someone needs to write a book.

I've said it before but I'll repeat myself because I can: there is a market for a book telling parents who are about to send their first child off to school what school etiquette is. There are so many things you just don't know and I'm sure they become readily apparent the first time you've embarrassed yourself hugely in front of all the other parents/teachers/head teacher/pupils. But it would be nice to avoid that embarrassment and just be able to read up on what is supposed to happen.

For example, tomorrow is the last day that my son will be at pre-school forever (unless he keeps forgetting how to wipe his own bottom and the big school sends him back for another year's hygiene training). And until very recently, it skipped my notice that as a parent with nothing else to do or money to spend on things, you are supposed to buy teachers presents at the end of the year, particularly if you're leaving and never coming back.

This fact actually came to my attention a couple of months ago but was like a ball of fluff. It just drifted in one ear and out the other and I didn't think twice about it. Until today. Actually until an hour ago. So what do you get for a teacher at 7pm the night before the day it is to be presented? In fact what do you get them full stop? And are you just supposed to give the main teacher a present or all the staff? You see how many questions there are that a book could easily explain. I can see paragraphs being consumed on this subject alone.

So back to the subject of what to get them. I've been advised that wine is always well received. I'm sure it is. It's quite well received in this house too. And although I could afford to buy one not-totally-vile-and-semi-drinkable bottle, I certainly don't feel like paying for it five times over to thank all the staff. If I'm going to spend that much on wine I'd like to be the person consuming it. I mean it is these same people who send my children home with glitter and pine needle art so how big a thank you should they get? Despite all these very good arguments for not buying wine, the decision is somewhat made for me as we have none left in the house (why we invested in a wine fridge I'll never know - it's never full). So that's the end of the wine discussion.

Moving on. I could get son to wake up early tomorrow morning (he does anyway) and create a lovely piece of art for them (pay back time - I'll go digging for grass shavings now). But I fear that they probably won't appreciate yet another piece of - let's face it - fairly dire artwork. They probably see enough of it in their day jobs so taking it on holiday with them probably won't happen. So scratch that off the list.

I believe that gawdy trinkets like a pink ceramic elephant with tears running down its cheeks holding a sign saying: I'll miss you my best teacher, are considered naff. And rightly so. Which is good because we don't have any of those in the house either.

Which leaves one thing. Baked goods. I can do baked goods. I'm not convinced the teachers want baked goods. I have no idea if they have nut allergies or on a mega-slimming programme before trying to squeeze into their summer bikinis. But quite frankly, tough. It's chocolate brownies in cellophane bags with gold ties (because I do just happen to have some of those in the house, a carry over from my walnut packing episode several years ago... it's a long story) and they will take them and smile. If they feed them to family, hand them in at a homeless shelter or drop them in a bin, I don't care. It's the thought that counts. And the bloody effort at this time on a Monday evening (particularly because Husband still has to bring home the chocolate as I don't have enough.)

So there, dilemma solved. But I was seconds away from embarrassing myself by arriving empty handed. And given I still have another child who has to spend two full years there, and given his propensity for peeing in his pants, I probably need to curry favour now. Now if someone had just written a book about this, I would have had none of these conundrums.

Must bake.

Big school - part 2

Sigh.

It all started so well. He left pre-school without complaint. He spoke confidently about going to big school. He remained calm the whole way home. He took the clever decision to have a wee before we set off. He marched assuredly up the road. I was filled with pride as my little star seemed to be taking this big school visit in his stride. I mentally scolded myself for thinking the worst of him. It was going to be a breeze.

And then he saw the school building, the children playing outside, the gate we had to walk through. In an instant, the facade crumbled and the banshee boy we all know and love emerged. I DON'T WANT TO GO TO SCHOOL. I'M NOT GOING IN. I'M NOT. I WANT TO GO HOME. SCHOOL IS STUPID.

Sigh. At the exact same time an angelic looking little girl with long blond ringlets walked calmly past us, holding her mother's hand. I gave the mum a friendly smile, hoping to get a 'hang in there' type of smile in return. I didn't. It was more of a grimmace. She was either one of those been-there-done-that-put-five-kids-through-school-so-far type of mums who quite frankly wasn't interested in making friends or dealing with tantruming children. Or she was a first timer too and was just as anxious to create a good impression and didn't want my son scaring the bejesus out of her child. Or she was just a cow.

Reinforcements arrived in the form of a mum and child we knew. It didn't help sway the screamer though. Then another child arrived and calmly walked in. Meanwhile, my child was still clinging to the fence outside, getting his hands covered in rust as he wailed: I'M NOT GOING IN!

After a huge amount of coaxing and physical manhandling - including two bouts of the headmistress trying to say hello and then promptly saying: 'I'll leave you for a while shall I', I managed to get him indoors. It took the head teacher and I playing with a plastic pirate ship and ringing the doorbell on a toy house before he'd dain to enter the classroom. Meanwhile, the other children were all sitting perfectly still on the carpet on their chalked on names, looking at books. How proud their mums must have been.

The other parents left. Still my child clung. I tried to wear my 'ultra calm, fully in control' expression while cajoling him into sitting with the others. Not a chance. The head teacher, obviously bored of playing pirates by this stage, decided to leave. When I tried to follow suit, more wailing ensued and she instructed me to stay until he settled.

What she doesn't know is that as long as I stay, he will not settle. Ever. I have learnt that the only approach is to be brutal. Dump and go.

So I sat on a tiny chair way too small for my arse and listened to the Ten Tiny Tadpoles. I watched as the children were divided into groups with a range of exciting activities for them to do like trains, waterplay, drawing and traffic management (I assume this was with a pretend car and stop sign rather than directing the actual traffic on the street). It really was time for me to leave as my name wasn't on the board, I hadn't been assigned a group or a fun activity.

I attempted to leave. Cue screaming. I promptly told the teacher that he would continue to do this until he turned 18 and left for uni so we might as well just get cracking and cut the apron strings. It took two teachers to peel him off me and as I strode out of the room, he was being restrained by both of them while he held his arms out saying: 'I WANT A LAST CUDDLE WITH MY MUMMY.'

I ignored and left. Am sure they think I'm a cold bitch. But it's a choice between being that or a soft touch and am never sure which teachers appreciate more.

And in 30 minutes time, I have to go back there and reclaim him. And then we get to repeat this process again next week and the week after that. Then we'll have a nice long summer holiday for him to forget all about it so that come September, he'll be ready to start the screamfest from scratch.

Sigh. I think I shall have a whiskey tonight. On the bright side, at least I won my bet and I get to keep the chocolate cake.

Big school

In a bit of a mad rush today as I have to compact all my work into a few short hours before fetching eldest son early from pre-school. Today he has his first trial session at big school. I am terrified. There's something about going back to school that instantly makes me feel as though I'm doing something wrong. Maybe it's the way all the teachers insist on being called Mrs X or Miss Y, rather than say Ruth or Emily.

And they have so many rules. Good grief. Even for the short one hour and fifteen minute session he'll be having today, we've been instructed to ensure that the children have a drink and a hat. Further on in the letter they specifically say NOT TO BRING ANY DRINKS OTHER THAN WATER. So I guess that applies to today as well. I have a sippy cup or a spiderman cup that I can put the water in. Are there rules about what the water is allowed to be in? Will my son be ostracised if I get it wrong? Will he immediately labelled as uncool?

And then there's the what they should wear bit. My son is in shorts and his pre-school t-shirt. And he'll have a hat (please, please let me not forget that). But is that what they're supposed to wear? Am I supposed to have already bought a uniform? Will my child be the only one that doesn't fit in?

Then there's the small issue of my son himself. He doesn't 'do' new situations well. He doesn't like being looked at. He doesn't like to let go of my leg (he still clings to me like a hermit crab everytime I drop him at pre-school and he's been going there for years). And when he doesn't like something, he's not particularly good at keeping his emotions in check. In fact, if they had Tantrum Olympics, he would be the proud owner of several gold medals.

This morning before we headed off for pre-school we'd already had: 'Yay, I'm going to big school. And you're not.' (said tauntingly to younger brother). This was swiftly followed by: 'I don't want to go to big school. It's stupid. And boring. And I already know how to read.' (he doesn't). This then promptly changed to: 'Because I'm going to big school mummy, does that mean I can sit in the front seat of the car?' (no you can't). So then we had: 'Well if I don't want to go to school I don't have to.' (er, actually you do).

So I am expecting that when I fetch him in 45 minutes time we will have excitement, followed by tears, then more excitement, then more tears etc until we get there (and that will just be me). Upon arrival he will have a complete and utter meltdown due to the complete flood of emotions. I will be the mother that the others all look at sympathetically (meanwhile smirking inside) while their darling children jauntily wave goodbye without a care in the world.

What my son doesn't realise is that this isn't just about the first impression he has to make, it's about the impression I have to make. All of my pareting skills, all of the time I've invested in the last 4 and a bit years, all of the time outs, teaching of manners, sitting on naughty steps, praising, rule-making, reward boarding, it all comes to a head this afternoon. Today my child leaves the safe confines of home, and his behaviour - and by proxy my parenting skills - will be on display for all to see. And I'm willing to bet a large slice of chocolate cake that we're not going to come away with top marks.

But he might prove me wrong. He might be an angel. He and I might be eminently cool. I might be the mum that all the other mums think: Gosh, she's got it in control and what a well-behaved young man.

Chances are slim.

I really think that someone needs to set up 'Going to big school preparation classes' - not for the children you understand, for the adults. They could cover things like what to pack in a lunch box, what types of cakes are appropriate for a bake sale, what is appropriate school gate behaviour, how to help your child to fit in and what are parent/teacher evenings.

Because they give ante-natal classses and personally, I'm finding this going to school lark far more intimidating than giving birth.

Must dash. Will report back.