23 Years - Last Days of Year Six

23 years of the school run - from stay-at-home mum and those overwhelming first nursery days at 2 years and 9 months, to mum struggling to survive child sexual abuse - to working mum running a company and wondering how to juggle all the balls.

23 three years, with two ‘sets’ of children - a few years apart, (this book tells the story of the in-between) -of waking newborns from deep slumber, of plucking furious babies off the breast, of folding apoplectic toddlers into car seats - because nothing stops the 3.15pm pick up. Not even Covid. Apart from during Covid – when, as a shielding family the school run stopped for longer than most.

23 years of doing most of the journeys - apart from many terrible months where I sat in a hospital ward, wondering who was holding their hands, and if I would ever do it again. And then - the wobbly return to it - a daughter so anxious she didn’t remove her earmuffs for an entire year. Mothers who weren’t sure how to talk to me - just out of rehab. Like being a survivor - this (on the surface) appeared spectacularly unusual in a town like mine. 

23 years of varying mobility - a few scary years after a compound delivery of my third child and zero core strength due to a hernia, and the impact on my lower spine - of relying on a wheelchair for a while and wondering if that was it - and how long I could do this on my feet.

23 years of driving the whole way, to driving half the way, and the just a friendly reminder newsletters about parking, and the wrath of the residents who chose to live next door to a school, and the no disabled parking and the dodging of wardens and the -  you can’t park here -  and - you don’t look disabled - to this last year to walking more to keep my spine mobile and my crumbling bones from crumbling further as I move into menopause. Of hiding pain from my child.

23 years of dark winter mornings - and - don’t turn on the light, it hurts my eyes! Of porridge and chopped strawberries. Of the present of milk on the doorstep. And rushed birthday breakfasts with Coco Pops as a treat and bright mornings of birdsong and the sun and a plate of toast and honey, with the back doors flung open, and the smell of the air after a rainstorm.

23 years of: Where is my uniform - and -  it’s there where I left it - and -  I can’t find my socks - and - my trousers are too short - and - I told you to cut your nails last night - and - everybody else’s mother can do French plaits -  and - Oh my God is that a nit? - and - no, I will not tie my hair up and they can’t make me - and - no, I’m not going to school. I won’t. 

23 years of: Is it PE day? and dressing up day hell - and - but why do they make us do it? - and - it isn’t fun - and - search up the newsletter on your phone Mummy - and - are you sure, sure it’s today?

23 years of small hands in mine, one girl, three boys - all very different. All wonderful. Of long conversations on the way, of storytelling, and spelling practice and times tables and making up rhymes, and - mind the dog poo! (Only one unfortunate incident isn’t bad) 

23 years of: What is my snack? -  and - did you remember a snack? – what club is it again? - and - yay it’s fish and chip day - and - oh no you forgot my homework! - and - what did you do today? -  and - nothing. It was boring.

Even through the foggy days. The darkest days, where I couldn’t look after myself. I got them there and went home to bed. Set my alarm. Got myself back there again - somehow. Avoided the playground. The mothers. Can you meet me by the gate instead? These were the little things that kept me alive. My children needed me. 

Once I was late. Just once. An accident on the motorway. I rang the school. They forgot to tell my daughter. She still brings it up at 25. Remember the day you forgot to pick me up?  I’m still not sure if she believes me. 

This last year has been savoured by me. Because I see the privilege of being their mother. Because I watched a reel that said, “Imagine you’re 80 and lonely, and one day you wake up at age 40, with the chaos and the mess, and the sticky kisses and the yelling and the shoelaces in knots - and you wonder why you ever complained about it or wished it away -even for one moment.”

Year 6 has been school runs with my boy, a summer baby - in some ways much older than his years, but in other ways still so very young compared to his peers. A year of him wanting to hold my hand in the special way (one finger curled inside my palm) and to give me the biggest cuddle at the school gate. It’s been a year of ice creams after school - No, just a normal cone, no sauce - Why? - I’m not made of money… 

Today, we walked there together and remembered it all. Together. He has just turned 11, so of course a lot of his memories are scatological, such as his delight in the memory of the steaming poo on the road up to the hospital, the poo neither of us were convinced was dog. He recalled the quick up and down on the zip line as we walked by the park. (He did it today). How he once hid in a bush and scared me half to death because I thought he was lost. The singing man. Our (sort of successful) attempt at recreating 'Catchphrase' in verbal form. The ‘disturbing’ smell by the theatre. Helping his older brother, who hated every second of the school run and never, ever went without a fight, not once. The terrible day when his brother dropped the back of his Bikability badge and we spent 20 minutes retracing our steps and searching through the mud and blades of grass on our hands and knees.

He remembered our occasional Friday morning breakfasts on the way - just because we could, and today - his total delight in contributing to contraband snacks smuggled inside backpacks and not just one ‘bad’ snack but two. An apple pie and Prawn Cocktail crisps. How was today? - Good! - Not boring? - No, I ate my snacks.

Today we stopped for ice cream. (Yes, I know - a bad snack overload but it’s not every day you come to the end of Year 6). Snickers flavoured. In a sprinkle cone. With caramel sauce. 

Will you miss it do you think? - No - it's boring...

And he held my hand all the way home.