On being left behind

We are going through some things this past few weeks. It is one of those times when you have things bothering you that you can't really blog about, for various reasons, mainly because after all is said and done, a blog is a public space and not everything is for sharing, and not everything is for sharing at this particular moment. But these things happening caused me to be stressed, and as a result I wanted to write. In fact I have about 5 posts that I want to write, and I had every intention of writing each and every one of them, but every time I sat down in front of my computer this last week or so, I wrote two sentences and then froze. I didn't know what to write, or how. It was a completely new experience for me. I felt like the biggest cliche out there, saying "but something like that has never happened to me". After all it wasn't any of the multiple things that I usually go through before I start writing. It wasn't a case of writer's-block, it wasn't a case of "oh no I need a post for tomorrow and I haven't a clue", and it wasn't any of the things that happens after I finish writing, because it wasn't a case of "no one will find this interesting enough to read". I know all those fears quite intimately. They go through my mind at least three times a day. More if I actually try to write. In fact, after I release a post into the world the first thing I do is shut down the computer (and every other internet related electronic device near me) and try not to think about all the people not reading my posts. If I could, I would let Hidai (or any other unsuspecting volunteer) release my posts for me. I am not good at letting go.
I also tend to hyperventilate, nag about all the things that can go wrong, and walk around restlessly through the whole process.

Working (or playing Candy Crush)

And if it's tough with posts, you can imagine how much I like letting my kids go anywhere without me. The only good thing about my neurosis is that they are predictable. I am like a well oiled clock that way. A cuckoo clock maybe, but still a clock. For years I never took the kids anywhere, except home. Needs to go to nursery or school? Daddy will take you. Needs to go to an after school activity? Daddy. Needs to go to a friend's house? Yes, I know you know. Daddy. The problem is I can't leave. I don't mind sitting outside and waiting. I don't mind being the creepy parent who hides in the bushes (I am guessing you have seen New Year's Eve, and know who Piper's mum is. If not, you probably found that less funny). I just can't turn my back and go out, leaving them there to fend for themselves in the cold-cruel-crazy world. I can't be sure they won't be lost or hurt, or insulted. I can't be sure there will be someone to look over them, to notice them. I can't be sure they'll be fine until I come back.
In a different lifetime I used to translate articles for university students. I translated a few hundreds of articles, but I only remember one of them. And this one was about parenting. I remember it because it was about how a mother's job is to be left behind. As mothers, as parents, every day we lose a tiny bit of our kids - they start walking, dressing themselves, feeding themselves, reading, writing, they learn how to operate a TV, and they leave us. Just a little bit more. It is our biggest job, and our toughest one. Because being left behind is the worst feeling there is. You are not needed here anymore.
But there you have it - If we do our job right, than our kids will be able to leave us more easily.
Some of it is metaphors (or at least things you can ignore their symbolism), and some of it is real live leaving. Like taking the kids somewhere and leaving them there. Or maybe they leaving you and going inside without a backward glance.

And I am not good with letting go. In fact with Ron I was really bad. I remember the first time I put him in nursery. I cried the whole time. And bought a new printer. But the years, some Rescue Remedy, Hidai holding my hand and a lot of practice made me feel like I am getting better. Or maybe it's the understanding that I have no choice. He will hate me forever if I try to follow him everywhere. And you get through not going with him to the first school trip, or the second one, or the beach-day. You get through 10 first days ok, you get through picking him up after a half-term football camp (just days one. Not one with nights). And it lulls you into believing that you are stronger, that you can do it.
Than comes the first day in year 4 and you manage to go through it all without crying, with only a mild panic attack, and without running to your child crying loudly "Oh sweetie pie, my baby, I've missed you so much!" the minute you see him come down the school steps.

Follow the purple line and you'll get to reception

And then you have Yon, a typical second child, and somehow I had the fantasy, or thought, or dream, that it is easier the second time around. Especially this year, as we've taken him to visit his new Reception class a few times before his first day, we've talked about it non-stop and mainly because he really wanted to go. He wanted to be in "big school" like Ron.
And maybe it was because I was very preoccupied with other stuff. But his first day arrived, and for the first time in our lives as parents Hidai didn't take a day off to be with me. Because we forgot. Because we didn't think it would be hard. Because Yon is a second child, and it is supposed to be easier. After all we already know that nothing bad is going to happen, that it is just three hours for the first week, that he knows the teachers and the classroom.
I can give you all these excuses. God knows I gave them to myself. But then we got there on Monday for the first day, to the new classroom, and it was full with kids and parents, and noise. We stood there, Hidai & I in the entrance to the classroom, Yon had already gone to play with some animals and waved us goodbye, and we looked at each other and in that moment we knew. We can't leave. We can't turn our back and leave our baby in there alone.

FIrst day, first ten minutes in reception

That is the moment when we lost one of life's better fantasies and learnt one of it's harder lessons - it doesn't get easier.
We did leave of course, but not before we talked to the teacher, the 3 SEN assistants, both the school and the Children Centre head teachers, and the deputy head; and we still spent a couple of minutes standing outside and picking in through the door-window. We left, just like we left Ron in year 4, just like we left both of them on Tuesday and on Wednesday. We left because he had a lovely time in Reception, because he was talking to another child, because he did everything we were worried he wouldn't - having fun, communicating, sharing, seeing.  We left, because there was nothing more to do, and we didn't have any more excuses not to.
As I am sitting here writing this I am thinking about my boys growing up, about having to let them walk to school alone, about letting them spend nights out of the house, I am thinking about one of the bloggers I love reading, whose daughters are about to leave for uni, about my parents having three kids in three countries (and soon continents) and having to say goodbye every time, and I am not sure I can do it. I am not sure I am strong enough to let them go. To be left behind.