Our daughter started nursery (pre-school) this week. She had been on countless waiting lists for longer than I care to remember. Last Friday, I called one of these nurseries and nearly collapsed when they said she can start on Monday. I thought maybe it was a prank call, which would have been really cunning because I called them.
I always said I wanted her to start nursery when she is three. For her first day to be the day after her third birthday is the best piece of luck I could imagine. I could win the jackpot and I honestly don’t think I’d be as excited. I’m not sure that’s entirely accurate but it illustrates my point.
|I selected this photo because it’s so full of beauty, pathos and imagination.|
On Monday, the teachers encouraged me to stay there with her. It was wonderful seeing her so happy. They had me helping out with activities and it was fantastic.
There was one slightly uncomfortable moment when I was on the floor, playing. One of the little boys stood in front of me and stared at my boobs. I assure you they were not on display. He was entranced, if I do say so myself. I tried to distract him with Lego, but he wasn’t having any of it. Then he gave me a big cuddle, and went back to staring at my chest with a half-smile on his face. I asked if he was OK. Want to know what he said? “I’m happy.” Oh.
With darling girl in nursery, on Wednesday morning I had my first bit of regular time to myself. I know I’m not alone when I say I had been dreaming of this moment. I cleaned the kitchen. I went to the supermarket, where I surprised myself by nearly crying at the sight of a baby. I got back to a strangely empty house and it was already nursery pick-up time. The thing is, I had serious plans for Wednesday morning. But it turns out you can’t do all this in 2.5 hours:
– Clean house
– Peruse cookbooks for perfect slow-cooked Moroccan chicken
– Buy ingredients for perfect slow-cooked Moroccan chicken
– Read my book
– Fix broken tile in hideous bathroom
– Watch a repeat of The Bill or latest episode of Waterloo Road… a tough choice
– Have a sleep
– Do the ironing
– Learn to speak Russian
I threw a joke in there, did you spot it? I don’t iron.
So now I have daily drop-offs and pick-ups at 9am, 12pm and 3pm, which means I really can’t venture too far away. I was excited at the thought of regular mid-week solo trips to galleries and museums, but they’re out. But her saying, “Mummy, look at all my new friends!” at pick-up time is worth anything.
Come to think of it, I really need to get my watch repaired.
This November, I’m writing one post every day as part of NaBloPoMo.