Rites of Passage
We are at the pre-school where my little blondinis will be fed in as caterpillars, to become butterflies, snappers, shrimps et al. All things being equal and brochure promises met, they come out at 11 ready to negotiate world peace as creative, inventive, respectful, academic, sporty, musical, multi-lingual individuals. All schools promise the same. They will take your blank canvas and your partnership will create a masterpiece.
Today – thinking of this day years in the future, as long as every now and then they seem as pleased to see me as I am to see them I will be happy.
It is their taster day. I have only just got used to them having hair, teeth and language. This is a step too far. It was a toss up all morning as to who would cry most. I had to save mine until I got back in the car. There, as the rain smashed biblically on the windscreen I remembered with wet eyes Didsbury Son pre schooling.
Then, the hugs and kisses were delivered with joy and urgency. The adulation unfettered and declarations of love came without the expectation of money or lifts.
I know it is as it should be. If they don’t rely on you wholly at 3 it’s not right. If they do at 15 it’s equally not right. It does not make it any easier. Didsbury Son is a typical and lovely teenage boy. This means parenting is strategic.
One difficulty with having teenager and toddlers simultaneously is that as you feel the sticky hands of a 3 year old grab you with adoration and urgency – the reality and criticism of what happens over the next decade is there, next to you, grunting and disapproving from underneath its headphones.
This means one thing only. I make the most of every squeeze, hug and use of me as a Fisher Price toy; they don’t last long.