Too Cool At School

Parents are meant to be embarrassing. Everybody knows that. Except that I was secretly planning on *not* being an embarrassment to my children. I was going to be The Exception, always remaining cool and popular, a bit like Rodney Dangerfield in”Back To School”, except, well, actually cool.  

But two recent events have proved me wrong.

First, when I turned up to take part in the Literacy & Numeracy Week Open Day activities in Mr Justice’s class, he did not want to know me. Not even when I poked him repeatedly. Go figure. 

Second, I saw him physically balk when I told him I was going to school assembly to see him get his Pupil of the Week Award. The grand irony was that he was getting it for “excellent sharing skills during maths games in Numeracy & Literacy Week” and, since he didn’t bring any actual games to play, I assumed he was being rewarded for sharing his mother with the class. I mean, all the other parents in attendance sat and played Monopoly with their offspring and I ended up playing endless rounds of Uno and Connect 4 with children not of my loins because my own son wouldn’t even look at me. So it was “sharing” in the same sense that one might “share” something they do not want. Like a chocolate biscuit that you’ve already licked all the chocolate off.  

Anyway, I decided to try and make light of Mr Justice’s obvious embarrassment about the school assembly. “Can I clap loudly and whoop when they call your name?” I said jokingly. 

He looked even more horrified. 

So I said “It’s okay. I won’t do that. I know that’s against Principle Brett’s rules. I also know not to take my trousers off and run around the hall shouting ‘Boobies!’”.

Yes, I really said that to my seven year old son. No wonder he’s so embarrassed of me. Still, I got a smile out of him – until, of course, Tiddles McGee took my lead and started shouting “Boobies! Boobies!” at the top of his lungs. 

“Uh, could you please make sure McGee doesn’t shout that during assembly?” Mr Justice pleaded with me, panicking somewhat.

“Of course, of course!” I said, swiftly removing Tiddles McGee from the room. 

Cut to: Assembly. As Mr Justice’s class walked into the hall, half of the kids jumped and down, shouting “Hi [NDM]!” when they saw me. They love me, they really love me – if only because I buy their love with cupcakes. But Mr Justice? He played it cool, boy. Real cool. 

Even when he got up to accept his award, he only shot me a couple of fleeting glances before looking determinedly away. On the hall’s stage, he looked like such a Big Boy, but still with the shadow of his baby-self playing across his face, as he frowned, a little uncertain and nervous. 

And as I sat at the back of the hall, smiling and waving at my unseeing child, I felt so very proud and ever-so-slightly hurt. 

And I thought to myself:  this is necessary for him, this slow separation from his mother as he moves from babyhood to adulthood. I thought: at least at home he still loves me and throws his arms around my neck, squeezes me tight and covers my face with kisses.

I thought: more than ever before, every hug is precious.