So this is school, huh?
The reality sinks in at about 8.30 p.m. yesterday evening. In bed, Jamie starts to cry a little. We chat about it.
"I've changed my mind," says Jamie. "I don't want to go to school now."
"Mmm. Why's that?"
There's the wistful, universe-spanning pause as he tries to put it into words.
Too big. Too many children. Too many BIG children. He'll miss mummy and daddy and sister Hannah. He just wants to play at home. How will he have time to play if he has to go to school?
I remind him of how the preps have their own play yard, where the bigger kids aren't allowed to go. I recall how he felt the same way before starting kinder, and how kinder and his teacher Jo quickly became the coolest thing ever.
I tell him about the nice teachers he met at the prep orientation sessions in November last year, but I can't for the life of me recall their names. Two months is a long time, I guess, but for a 5-year-old they are like centuries.
Or are they?
"Their names are Jan and Meg," says Jamie instantly, looking baffled and incredulous that I could forget such world-shakingly important information.
Who says teachers aren't important, eh?
In fact, remembering the names (and no doubt visualising the people they belong to) is the final reassurance that helps Jamie settle and eventually drift off to sleep.
I have to ask you again. Who says teachers aren't important, eh?
Next morning (today), and the doubts return as we prepare for the first official day of school. But they're a little different now.
Jamie's friend Rory (from Kindergarten) didn't wear a hat or school shirt during the orientation, so perhaps he's not going to today. And if Rory's not going to, Jamie doesn't want to either.
I almost fall into the trap of assuring Jamie that not only will Rory be wearing his full school kit, but every other kid will, too. At the last minute I switch to talking about how comfortable his clothes will be for playing in, and how teachers will be able to tell at a glance that he is going to their school. The hat? No, it's not about wearing it because other kids will wear it. It's about summer and sunburn -- staying safe.
But as we walk to school, we spot other children wearing their hats and school uniforms, and this appears to be the most reassuring influence to Jamie. He begins to relax. Is it the first glimmer of a feeling of belonging? Of being like everybody else? Of not having somehow failed to be part of the group?
The thought disturbs me ever so slightly. I remind myself of a previous promise I've made to never ever play the compare and contrast game with our boy. That he will always be unique, and that if I can teach him anything worthwhile in this life of his, it is to enjoy being unique and celebrate the uniqueness he discovers in others.
At school, we mill about in the yard and parents discover other people they know through the strands of the community web. Alongside some people we already know from kindergarten and the orientation, I'm surprised to meet our local butcher -- the one I introduced in "the (un)butcher(ed) script" here in fact! -- and find out his daughter's classroom chair is next to Jamie's. Then there's the lady whose father is best mates with my own father. Their little lad is similar in personality to our Jamie, and as it turns out, they both have cricket-obsessed grandfathers who want their grandsons to play at the cricket club they represent at committee level.
For many of the parents, I suspect, the first day of school is a time when their worlds become a great deal smaller. On the same day, for their children, the world is going from a party balloon to something big enough to carry a basket full of people and soar over continents.
We eventually get inside. There's the tense search for the shelf with the name on it to put the backpack and hat ("Holy hell - where is Jamie's? What if there's been a mistake - Oh, phew, there it is..."), followed by the inspection of chairs to see which one has been designated to whom.
I get that slightly uncomfortable feeling again. Of being a pigeon and getting allocated a variety of well-marked holes... Gosh, does it have to start this bloody early?
Through the chaos, Jamie's teacher appears in front of us. She's quickly down, looking Jamie in the eye, instantly remembering his name and welcoming him, recalling how good he was at drawing pictures during the orientation two months ago. She also points out that the chairs with names on them don't mean a whole lot for now. Jamie can sit where he likes.
The spectre-like image of pigeons being shoved into holes fades in my mind. Thank goodness for that...
Who says teachers aren't important, eh?
Jamie seats himself at a table, looks down at some paper and pencils, then looks up me. There are several emotions intertwined in his expression.
This isn't too bad, I s'pose...
So... what am I supposed to do now?
The goodbye goes well. I return three and half hours later, with all the other parents.
Jamie wanders out looking mildly pleased.
"I think I like school now," he says, rather proudly.
Later, in the car, he says: "Daddy, we couldn't play outside too much today... It was... spitting." The word comes out carefully and clearly.
Never heard him use that word before to describe the onset of light rain.
Interesting, that.
=D
