Could I be that parent?
My Big Boy enters the realm of Big Schooldom next year (cue massive sigh of relief from somewhere…surely not me?) and orientation sessions have begun. I should start by saying that my husband and I are the salmon of the ‘when to send your children to school’ river- our boy will be starting school at the fragile but boistrous age of four. I mention that to excuse him from any bad behavior or failure to thrive at big school. It’s always useful to have excuses for your children at the ready – eases the guilt somewhat. Anyway, last week I psyched the both of us up for a 45 minute P.E lesson with Rosie. I had admirable, anxious-parent-of-a-new-school-kid plans to get there in plenty of time so that we could both be calm, collected and definitely not the last to walk into the big, open gymnasium. But, as life seems to roll at present, we screeched to a halt outside the school fence with two minutes to spare and no time for a briefing. We raced through the gates, hand in hand as I explained that this was the warm up exercise, in order not to panic him. After making me proud by spelling his name to the young teacher at the table, he was labelled and hussled into the middle of the gym to find a place on the yellow line among 20 or so other kinder kids. I found my perch along the side wall next to a woman with a new baby nestled peacefully in a sling, and a boy of about two standing like a little angel beside her (I instantly felt like a major wimp, having left my little one at home with his daddy in case he dare cried while we were out!).
Now I’m already aware of my potential to become that mum, courtesy of swimming lessons. I have only been a few times to witness my Big Boy splashing about, but each time I have nearly boiled over with frustration and the effort of preventing myself from lurching forward to unleash a torrent of discipline and advice about technique (having been a little pro swimmer myself, I know all there is to know about teaching 4 year olds how to swim). I have had to look away at times to suck in deep, deep breaths and to remind myself that:
- there is a teacher in the pool with him, who is qualified to teach swimming (though I haven’t seen her certificate…)
- I am not in charge – she is (a control freak’s worst nightmare)
- they are only kids (another excuse)
- it’s okay to have a bit of fun while learning (but not too much, cos we pay money for this!)
- everyone will stare, point and label me as that parent if I keep jumping out of my plastic seat to stand on the edge of the pool glaring and threatening
So, I knew what I was up against when I entered the gym with my excitable 4 year old. Things started out okay while activities were simple and instructions basic. But when the friendly Rosie (or Mrs Lumsdon for the those kids) upped the ante and had them multi-tasking with more skill than my boy has, things started to unravel for him, and then me. He began to look around him, trying to figure out what to do with his hands and feet and blue beanbag, but decided pretty quickly that it would be a hell of a lot easier to just go nuts, jumping about, throwing the beanbag and laughing at himself.
My pulse began to race – the struggle to control my urges was on, BIG time. I initially used the power of my mind and any eye contact we made to send him messages of encouragement. You can do it. Keep trying love. Then, Stop mucking around! You’re not even trying! That didn’t work, so I started on Rosie. Can’t you see the boy is struggling? Shouldn’t you be helping him or something? For gods sake, HELP THE BOY!
Still nothing. My Big Boy continued to be that kid and I attempted to stifle any evidence of being that parent (I wonder how many other mums were aware of my constant fiddling with the coat buckle, shifting feet and clenched teeth?). Thank god the class ended when it did, because my heart was either going to shatter on behalf of my son and his lack of skill or explode with the galloping thump thumping of a parent who is on the verge of losing it. Mrs Lumsdon’s class could well have been the unravelling of both of us – a reputation established months and months before we even start at the school. I must be on high alert, stay focused and avoid watching my son participate in anything!
