It's been an emotional morning. Firstborn has gone off on her first ever overnight camp.
As we gathered in the school hall for the pre-departure pep talk, I looked over at my daughter as she huddled with her friends, drinking in everything the teacher was saying and occasionally glancing over in my direction. I kept a brave face on it, grinning manically at her in an attempt to communicate "Fun! Yeah! This is great! Yay!", but I felt a little more flat inside as each minute passed.
Firstborn is a mere eight years young and today she looked tiny. Outside she was full of bravado but her big owl eyes and slightly pinched mouth indicated otherwise. I probably looked exactly the same.
Last night we picked out Firstborn's clothes (many were dismissed as being way too naff - how did she get fashion sense this young?), raided the store room for torches and a sleeping bag, then I gave myself repetitive strain injury by sewing on name tags while she chatted away about the sort of stuff that looms large in the eight-year-old mind. As I kissed her goodnight, I felt a warm surge of pride for this brave little girl who is trying so so hard to be all grown-up.
I'm not ashamed to admit that as the bus drove away this morning a few tears were shed. I squashed the urge to jump in my car and give chase, clamped my largest and darkest sunglasses firmly onto my face and swallowed hard. I obviously wasn't fooling anyone though, as a few of the kinder mums felt moved to pat my shoulder gently and mutter comforting words.
Then I went home for a major self-indulgent pity-party in the company of The Belly who, at nine months old, doesn't yet have the ability to find me embarrassing (that's the brilliant thing about babies - however rubbish you are, they still think you're just great).
I so need to toughen up.
As we gathered in the school hall for the pre-departure pep talk, I looked over at my daughter as she huddled with her friends, drinking in everything the teacher was saying and occasionally glancing over in my direction. I kept a brave face on it, grinning manically at her in an attempt to communicate "Fun! Yeah! This is great! Yay!", but I felt a little more flat inside as each minute passed.
Firstborn is a mere eight years young and today she looked tiny. Outside she was full of bravado but her big owl eyes and slightly pinched mouth indicated otherwise. I probably looked exactly the same.
Last night we picked out Firstborn's clothes (many were dismissed as being way too naff - how did she get fashion sense this young?), raided the store room for torches and a sleeping bag, then I gave myself repetitive strain injury by sewing on name tags while she chatted away about the sort of stuff that looms large in the eight-year-old mind. As I kissed her goodnight, I felt a warm surge of pride for this brave little girl who is trying so so hard to be all grown-up.
I'm not ashamed to admit that as the bus drove away this morning a few tears were shed. I squashed the urge to jump in my car and give chase, clamped my largest and darkest sunglasses firmly onto my face and swallowed hard. I obviously wasn't fooling anyone though, as a few of the kinder mums felt moved to pat my shoulder gently and mutter comforting words.
Then I went home for a major self-indulgent pity-party in the company of The Belly who, at nine months old, doesn't yet have the ability to find me embarrassing (that's the brilliant thing about babies - however rubbish you are, they still think you're just great).
I so need to toughen up.
Comments
Anon - Mother Pain sucks.
Juicy - yes, I did! Hard to believe I know, since I am so utterly slummy, but sewing is one of my secret talents. I am a fab label sewer-oner.
Anon - really looking forward to her coming home. Brilliant school has been sending texts so we know what the kids are up to but really want to give her a hug (in the car though, in secret, as otherwise she acts like I am the most embarrassing person to have ever walked the earth and wrestles me off her) sigh.