I wasn’t sure how the boy would take being separated from me for three hours a day, saying as how we’ve spent most of the past three years in each other’s company.
When I left him at the school I was anticipating a bit of screaming, a bit of leg hugging, maybe a spot of banging his fists fiercely on the nursery door with a touch of high-pitched wailing about not leaving him there all alone thrown in. I was highly disappointed that while all the other Mums had to contend with clingy, sobbing children, my little guy waved me a cheery goodbye and headed for the building blocks.
I even went over and reinforced the fact that I was leaving now, going away and leaving him here all by himself in the hope that it might spark a bit of dramatic reaction. He bid me farewell and went on about the business of building a castle with plastic blocks.
I resisted the urge to accidentally push over and annihilate his multi-coloured creation so that he’d cry and I’d have to hug him like all the other Mums were hugging their offspring. His lack of dramatics was making me look bad.
So I shuffled and huffed off back to the car, turning back in the hope that he’d at least have the courtesy to run to the nursery windows, put on a bit of a show of crying after me. I’d settle even for one solitary tear.
Nothing.
When I returned a few hours later I asked the nursery assistant how he had got on. Had he shown any signs of missing me? He had had a great time, she said. They had sung Happy Birthday and he had worn a silly king’s hat. Was there any tears, I enquired? Yes, she replied. He had shed a tear or two when the staff had told the children it was time now to go home.
She commented that my boy was very quiet. I laughed. His nickname in our house is ‘the curly-haired lunatic’. Wait until he settles in, wait until they get him full throttle. Then they’ll be banging on the nursery doors, crying for me to take him home.
After playschool the husband took the boy into town for an ice cream. He was wearing a big blue star badge that read ‘I am 3 today!’ – the boy, not the husband.
By the time the husband had reached the ice cream parlour he had made a profit of £4. Random people – female, average age 80 – kept stopping to admire my boy, his birthday badge and his curls.
When the husband reached the ice cream parlour the owner gave my boy extra helpings and refused payment. Whilst sitting outside the shop in the sun the boy made another profit of £2.70, a badge with a tree on it and a red balloon.
If we continue this way the husband and I calculate that we will be able to retire at 40. I’m sending them both into town next Saturday, adorned with several birthday badges and the husband will be sporting a curly wig for extra effect.
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