Scratchy, hairy, grey pants with the crease down the front that’d cut ya. Black brogues. Pressed polo shirts. Hair up (our Small Man’s is borderline put-up-able). Book bag, shoe bag, kit bag, indoor shoes, outdoor shoes. Hang sangiches and crunchy apples. But it’s all very confusing. In their last school they had two bags; a school bag and gear bag for PE on a Friday. Not here. They have a bag for everything. ‘Where’ll I put me lunch box?’ the Middle asks. Good question. I think she’ll have to eat it before she goes to school to avoid carrying another bag. Oh yes, it’s that time of year again. All-Ireland hurling final time and the holidays are over. It means back to school. This was a happy house, Tipp victorious. Himself as white as a sheet listening to the wireless via the phone. I don’t think the neighbours appreciated the flag hangin out the car window. At the school the playground is a sea of mums and dads and buggies. The bike shed an assembly line of scooters. First day and the place is hoppin, like Central Park of a Saturday night. Himself and I gone wrong with nerves. The kids wound up like springs with anxiety and excitement. A brood of plaits and ponytails escort the girls to their classroom. The Small Man shuffles to his prefab, inconspicuously.
The house is quiet and I am slightly at a loss. Off to Oxford for a few bits. Availing of the free WiFi in a local coffee shop it’s obvious before they open their gobs the pair beside me are American. She has her towns mixed up for a start with the yellow patent wellies on her, thinks it’s Glastonbury. Both have come to Oxford to expand their vocabulary, me thinks, cause like every like second like word and whatever and stuff is like, d’ya know what I mean like. Reminds me of Joseph O’Connor’s piece for Radio 1.
I watch the clock until 3pm and walk down to meet them. The two women have all the news, like which teacher has a cousin twice removed living in Cork and such a wan’s granny is from Belfast. That’s girls for ya. Our Small Man is not a happy camper. He misses his buddies at home, his loyal companions with their own banter, jokes and chat about matches. The Galway sense of humour is unique. It doesn’t exist in these here parts. No-one prepares you as a parent for the pain in your heart when one of your children is just unhappy, especially when they are nearly as tall as yourself. There is no parenting instruction manual and if there was all this would be in the small print, in the terms and conditions. That invisible cord attached tugs at your emotions, good and bad. In the words of Bruce Springsteen it’s ‘one step up and two steps back’. We question the move, the whys and ‘to what end’ of it all. But, as the week progressed much has improved and he is back to his cheeky, enthusiastic self. All are settling in, as well as could be expected. We have to take the rough with the smooth, there is no way around this part of our journey but through.
The girls have been invited to tea, after school. Here’s the thing, tea is dinner. But if their dinner is tea, then when do they have their dinner? Surely not at lunchtime. God no. What about supper then? Bit like the school bags, I’m addled. ‘What if I don’t like the dinner’ the Youngest is worried ‘Just eat what’s put in front of ya!’ they are warned. Tea goes well, fun was had, no one lost an eye but not a whole lot was eaten. But if I invite their friends to tea it’s tay they’ll get!
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