Mother!

My daughter has done it. Primary school. Completed it, mate! The signing of shirts, the final bow at the end of the school play, the last assembly. I can't really explain the swell of emotions I felt on the last day of school other than the fact that it feels like everything at once. Pride and sadness and joy and anxiety and fondness, it hits you like a huge unavoidable wall of feelings.

As far as my daughter and her cohort are concerned, the world is their oyster. Putting aside my fears for their future for a second, in this exact golden moment, they feel a little bit invincible. There's something so irresistibly joyful about seeing all of them, these kids who I've known through pass-the-parcel parties and friendship dramas and wonky costumes on fancy dress days, standing up on stage and beaming with pride. Having made it, finally, to this beginning chapter of the next thing. Do you know how much they change in seven years? It's astonishing. There's something magical about it. I see why teachers stick to their jobs even when it's relentlessly shit. It's been a privilege to watch these little people grow, even if I don't know them that well, even if they're just on our periphery on the school run every day.

Anyway. I'm expressing this all here because, of course, none of this is about me, and I would never say it all to her. As far as she's concerned, I cried (along with almost all the other parents on that last day) because she's growing up so fast, but I'm also so proud. You made it, kid! Nice one. 'Mother!' she says. With an eye-roll, but a fond one.

In the back of my mind, I'm slowly trying to get used to this untangling of me and her. Because secondary school, as it turns out, is immensely hands-off. When I tell you there's a lot going on at primary school, I mean it. At key points of the year I feel as though I might as well sit in on the lessons and refresh my phonics, because I'm there almost as much as the kids. With secondary school, my impression is that my involvement is mostly about money, and that I'll be wanging a few quid in my daughter's direction every now and then until we eventually go bankrupt.

It's hard to decipher how well you're doing, as a parent. Nobody grades you. You don't get a report. You just get to muddle through in the dark, making mistakes, and worrying a lot. Sometimes you don't even realise the mistakes you're making until quite a while after you've made them, and by that point, it's too late to rectify it. Have I done enough to prepare her? Am I doing the right things? Am I enough?

When I was in my early twenties, I'd visit my parents or my in-laws, and I'd wonder why our mums would never sit still. Constantly on their feet. Cooking, cleaning up, breathing fire out of their nostrils if you dare to pick up a teatowel. No! Sit down! I'm doing it. Come and sit down, Mum! Come and eat your food! Oh no, I'll be there in a minute, I'll just clear the decks a bit. And then ten minutes later when they finally sit down, they start worrying about dinner being too cold. Do you want me to pop it in the microwave? By then I'm already five roast potatoes deep and about to explode. And also, there's still steam rising from the gravy.

But I get it now. It's about showing love. It's about the need to be needed.

Over the years, I've worried about all the things I'm a bit crap at. I can't do hair. Mine or anyone else's. I can do basic plaits, perhaps a slightly bumpy high ponytail. Some of the girls wear elaborate French braids topped with ribbons. One girl used to turn up with her entire hair fashioned into a giant bow. How? I've always admired this precision. It's like engineering.

And then there are the chaos mornings. Halfway to school before realising we were meant to donate a couple of bottles for the summer fair tombola, and then we're sprinting to the corner shop so I can say 'how much?' at the price of a bottle of wine, before settling on two bottles of Coke. And the time I plopped my house keys in my daughter's bookbag, dropped her off at school, and arrived at home with my son in the pushchair only to realise what I'd done. I had to slope back to school like I was doing a slightly less scandalous walk of shame and ask to get my keys back from my five-year-old. And then one week later? I did the exact same thing again. Once gets you a sympathetic chuckle from the office ladies. Twice gets a raised eyebrow and concern.

There are times when I've felt a bit sorry for my children. I think, how have they ended up with me as a mum? I'm basically a child. When you're in the thick of it and you're tired, your faults seem huge and deeply embarrassing for everyone concerned. But I've reached a place now where I realise that this is how all mums feel. This is how my mum felt, that one time I turned up at school in a Spice-Girls-inspired crop top and shorts (lime green details, foam platforms, a strong look, still slaps) only to find everyone else in school uniform. Or the time that she naively bought me a glittery pendant necklace that she believed was a maple leaf (1/4 Canadians, rise up) but was in fact, a cannabis leaf, and only found out when my teacher enquired if everything was alright at home. Sometimes we're just rubbish at the details.

Mothering isn't necessarily about getting all the details right. But every kiss and cuddle and high-five or hair-ruffle that you give at the drop off is always, for that rushed little moment, meaningful. Parenting is like a giant school run morning: you get them ready as best you can, and you might feel stressed or be rushed off your feet and occasionally you lose a shoe (and your temper) at a crucial moment, but ultimately, you send them off with a cheerful wave and more love than you thought it was possible to feel. They appreciate it now, in their own way, and they'll really appreciate it when they're older. Of course I'm enough! I'm here, I'm trying. And I haven't accidentally endorsed my children using drugs just yet, so that's a bonus.

More importantly, they're doing well. Which is what it's all about. I might occasionally lose myself in anxiety about my own performance, but ultimately, it's always about them. Stepping aside and allowing them to become who they're meant to be.

I've watched my daughter blossom from this shy and sweet little girl into a funny, quick-witted, creative, caring, and interesting person. Last night, I watched her laughing and dancing with her friends at her leaver's party, before she pulled me onto the dancefloor to join her for a few songs. I'll never forget it. Raising them is a privilege, always, even if I sometimes take it for granted.

Thanks for indulging me with this personal post.

I can't think of a way to transition into this less clumsily, but here we go anyway. This is the part of the post where I'd normally ask if anyone fancies throwing a few pennies my way on Ko-Fi if you enjoy my work.

However, this week, seeing pictures of starving children in Palestine has made me change my mind. My children are housed, clothed, and fed. The same can't be said for every child, particularly those in Gaza at the moment. If you have a bit of spare cash, I'd appreciate it if you would donate to Share the Meal. Even just £6.50 is enough to feed 10 people in Palestine.

There are obvious challenges at the moment, but as soon as they can, Share the Meal is on standby to get food aid into Gaza, and they need donations to make this possible.

We also need to keep putting pressure on the government in the UK to respond. The joint statement isn't enough; there needs to be sustained global pressure on Israel to allow aid to reach Gaza. You can follow the steps suggested here to contact your MP about it, and if you're not into writing, you can use their template email instead. Thank you 💜