“YOU’RE AN UNINVOLVED MOTHER” you spat at me.
I’d asked you to make your son stop punching my daughter as they played before karate class and you made a comment about Pop’s inability to share. I said she wasn’t incapable of sharing but she was being hit so she was scared and frozen.
“YOU ARE FROZEN,” you hissed. “I watch you every week just sitting there on your phone, you’re an UNINVOLVED MOTHER.”
You’ve just arrived at karate, or swimming, or soccer, or playgroup and all the kids are buzzing around, excited to get going. Except for you.
You’re sitting on the floor with your hysterical child wrapped around your throat, refusing to join in. You’re trying to pry those little hands off your arms as you awkwardly unfold yourself into an almost upright position with an 18-kilogram weight hanging off your neck. You keep talking, whispering how everything’s going to be ok and how they’re going to have fun but they’re now wailing and kicking and EVERYONE is staring.
The other kids, their parents, the teachers or coaches: all staring. Any minute now, someone is going to come up to ‘help’ but it’s going to make everything worse.
The coach comes up to say hi and a little face digs into your stomach.
You smile politely and speak on behalf of your child because you want to look like you’re encouraging good manners but the tears have started to well in your own eyes because it shouldn’t be this HARD to have fun with your child.
My brave boy,
You started preschool today.
You thought your uniform was amazing because it’s the same colour as the ones your big cousins wear. You thought your hat was really quite fetching and you couldn’t wait to use your new lunchbox. We’ve been talking about preschool for what seems like months.
SO PROUD OF HIS HAT
We’ve gone over every aspect of what your day would look like, we practised eating lunch from your gazillion lunchboxes, we even practised how to make friends – with daddy playing the role of ‘that sad kid in the corner who might like a friend’.
We did as much as we could to make the unknown known to you.
It wasn’t enough.
And the meltdown begins in 3…2….1…
You raced into your room, you showed me every corner of it, you seemed excited, no … maybe just a little bit… terrified.
The moment I had to leave, you unravelled. Your fingers dug into my arms, your eyes grew wide with horror, I could feel your fear in my bones.