Cool Dude Day

8.30 a.m. is never a good time to have to be somewhere on a Sunday. For starters, it means having to be ready even earlier. But I am trying to be a good Mummy.

So, it is 7 o’clock and I am in bed with a day-welcoming cup of tea. My eyes are slowly ungluing themselves from their lids and my brain has started to whirr into action (or some semblance thereof). With peace reigning (in the way it never does at this time during the school week) I am given permission to run through a checklist of tasks before the time comes to haul myself, under protest, from beneath my all-too-comforting duvet. A packed lunch must be assembled, sun-cream and a cap located (in case of hot weather), waterproofs (in case of wet), all brought together in a backpack emblazoned with his name. Breakfast must be prepared and consumed...

I haven’t even mentioned the salvage job that needs to be carried out on my face before it is ready to brave the world.

With the bustle of preparation finally behind us and our journey to our rendez-vous nearly complete, neither of us has had time to acknowledge, to ourselves or each other, what is about to happen. The coach will leave at 8.30 a.m. It will deposit him in the same location at 5.30 p.m. (or thereabouts). And in between?

He hoists his backpack over his shoulders. I find myself hoping he doesn’t topple backwards.
I am handed a band with his name and contact details on it to attach to his wrist. I dutifully comply.

I fasten it too loosely and it slides, immediately, right off.

With my longest nail, I prise the edges of the stickiness (designed to hang on for grim death until removed with scissors) back, just enough to enable a fold. My sense of achievement is great. My son is identifiable and will remain so!

Another Mummy approaches, holding tightly onto her own son. His feet, too, are dragging a little.

“Why don’t you two sit together on the coach?” she suggests. “And maybe try to stay together today?” We are jollying them along. They are going to have fun.

All too soon, the coach has arrived. Our small, silent boys file, brave smiles hitched onto nervous faces, up the steps and onto the coach, brisk ladies-in-charge hurrying them on. He is so small I can hardly see the top of his head.

Oh God. Can he see me? Will he see me to wave goodbye? Did I cuddle him hard enough? Is he strapping himself in?

He turns, searches, and his face relaxes into his cheekiest grin. He’s fine. He waves cheerfully. I blow him kisses. I wave energetically. The coach pulls away. My little, independent son.

As I walk back to my car, something catches in my throat.

And I thought I was worried about HIM.