second thoughts Too late for
Sending her son to boarding school seemed a good idea a year ago but now Paranoid Parent worries whether she has done the right thing
I
t hit me this afternoon when I was packing his huge camouflage trunk – his choice of colour, not mine – that in two days’ time I will be packing him, his
gorgeous Malteser eyes and the trunk off to boarding school. Actually, it’s a cosy little weekly boarding school and he will be back in three days – but from the reactions of those around me, anyone would have thought I was sending him to Colditz. Too late for second thoughts. But as I said, tearfully, to hubby a week ago: “Suppose they are right and I am wrong?” Tey, being the gauntlet of school head, friends and teachers I have had to run for the past six months, since we confirmed this momentous decision with a rather substantial cheque. With looks, and even words, they have told me, in no uncertain terms, that I am cruel. My friend told me that I am
heartless, confining my son to an unloved childhood, from which he would emerge an emotionally stunted man. His lovely headmistress got in the car and drove down the M40 to look at said school and then politely told me that she thought I was making a mistake. It was the teacher review at the end of last term which nearly finished me. I made the error of asking what they thought of my son going on to a boarding school. Tree women, sitting in a row, on the other side of some desks, looked at me, then at the floor and then back at me. Finally, one spoke for all: “We think he should stay here.” Silly me for asking. If the desks had been bigger, I would have dived into one. It did help a bit that they had said the same to my son’s best friend’s mother – and every other mother contemplating boarding. In fact, we had formed a little gang of militant mothers, propping each other up with lattes and late night texts, reassuring each other that our sons weren’t immature, that it really was for the best, that they would cope and – even have a good time. Tat we weren’t inhuman beasts, were we?
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Trying not to be over-anxious, I had asked my son a few times whether he was looking forward to going to his new school. Each time the answer was the same. He nodded, sagely, and said he could not have stayed in the last school forever and that he was looking forward to his new school, but that he was a bit nervous. “Tat’s normal,”
both a bit wobbly and we thought it would be good for them to have a chat. Heads bent together, the two boys discussed the whole matter, worked out which bits worried them, how they were going to deal with it and then got down to the business of haring around the garden, which was what it was all about anyway. You see that is why I am doing it. I took my sons down to see the school about a year ago and watched them, eyes popping, necks swivelling, as they watched the older boys haring around the school grounds on bikes. Not for them a book-sized playground of Tarmac. Now they would have playing fields at hand, older boys, from whom I hoped they would learn good manners – and a cook who hands out chocolate. After the best-friend chat, he sang happily all the way home, and seemed so relaxed I was left wondering who would be doing the crying the next week. While I am worrying about whether his Cath Kidston spongebag, with ships on it might not be cool enough, and nostalgically thinking of an August day, when a chubby baby was placed in my arms and wondering where nine years have gone, my young son with thick carpet-brush hair is reminding me not to forget to pack his art things; wondering if he should take some of his Lego with him; and asking me whether I could buy him some green and red Tic-Tacs.
Te headmaster is in no doubt. He has been emailing us mothers about once a week for the past month, peppering some cheerful admonitions not to worry with some equally firm do’s and don’ts. Do label their clothes;
I said, reassuringly, and then launched into positive speak, reciting a list of all the great things about going to boarding school: not having Mummy screaming at him to put his coat on every morning; or the space and the different hobbies he could do. Somehow, the list got shorter, the closer we got to D-day. A few days before kick off, I took my son over to his best friend’s house. Tey were
don’t send food in a tuck box – his sister has slipped in two of her lucky marbles. Do make up the bed; don’t unpack the trunk. And finally, do leave when the bell rings. No hanging around for one last cuddle. Te boys are off for their barbecue and we are out. Only then am I allowed to cry.
Paranoid Parent returns in the next First Eleven. Autumn 2011 FirstEleven 63
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