There’s something about the start of a new school year that makes you realise just how quickly they’re growing up. One minute you’re labelling everything they own; the next, your eight-year-old is explaining why you’re doing it wrong.
And we’re back.
The new school shoes were bought while we were on holiday, because apparently even when you’re away from home, drinking something cold and pretending normal life doesn’t exist, September is quietly waiting for you.
The skirts have been checked. The trainers have been negotiated. The school bag has been emptied of the strange collection of things that apparently needed to spend the entire summer inside it.
And somewhere in our house there is a perfectly good water bottle.
Nobody knows where.
Welcome to back-to-school life with an eight-year-old.
Eight is an interesting age
I remember writing about the beautiful chaos of life with a six-year-old, when motherhood seemed to involve an endless stream of snacks, questions and small plastic objects appearing in places where small plastic objects really shouldn’t be.
Two years on, some things have changed.
Some absolutely have not.
At eight, she is suddenly very grown up.
Or at least, she thinks she is.
We have regular conversations about how much she wants to be a grown-up.
“I can’t wait until I’m a grown-up.”
“Yes, you can.”
“No, I can’t.”
“Trust me. You can.”
Because how do you explain mortgages, work deadlines, remembering everyone’s birthdays and the fact that you have to decide what people are having for dinner every single night for the rest of your life?
Stay eight, I tell her. Being eight is brilliant.
She remains unconvinced.
Apparently I know nothing about clothes
At eight, the opinions have arrived.
Proper opinions.
Skirts have to sit in a particular way. Trainers matter. Hair matters. And there are things I suggest that are dismissed with a look that I wasn’t expecting to receive for at least another four years.
The back-to-school shop isn’t simply:
“Does it fit?”
It’s:
“Do you like it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I just don’t.”
“But it’s exactly the same as the other one.”
“It’s NOT.”
My mistake.
And trainers? Trainers are now a thing.
I have learnt that two pairs of trainers that look virtually identical to me can, in fact, occupy completely different positions on the eight-year-old social acceptability scale.
Apparently this is obvious.
Grown up. Until she isn’t.
This is what I find fascinating about eight.
One minute she’s talking about being older, what she’ll do when she grows up and all the things she’ll be allowed to do when she’s finally in charge of her own life. Dancer. Vet. Saving the animals. Still dreaming big, which I love.
The next:
“Muuuuum?”
“What?”
“Can you come upstairs?”
“Why?”
“I need you.”
And there she is.
Still little.
She can disappear into her room and entertain herself for ages. She can make herself breakfast. She has friendships and jokes and conversations that have absolutely nothing to do with me.
And then she’ll reach for my hand.
I don’t always know which version I’m going to get.
I’m rather fond of both.
The first morning back
However many times you do it, there’s something about that first morning in September.
The uniform is clean. The new shoes are finally being worn for their intended purpose rather than being carried around on holiday. The hair is brushed. The bag is packed.
And suddenly she looks older.
Not dramatically.
Just enough that you notice.
I can still picture the little Foundation version of her, dwarfed by her uniform and heading into school.
Now she’s eight.
She knows where she’s going. She’s looking for her friends. She doesn’t need me hovering.
Which is exactly what I want.
Obviously.
Still… RUDE.
The conversations are changing too
At six there were endless questions.
At eight, there are still endless questions, but some of them have got considerably harder.
Friendships. Things people have said. Whether something is fair. Why people behave in certain ways. Things she’s heard that she’s trying to make sense of.
There are conversations about growing up.
And increasingly, I’m conscious that the answers matter.
Of course, sometimes I still start confidently explaining something before realising halfway through that I have absolutely no idea what I’m talking about.
Which is when I deploy the parenting classic:
“That’s a really interesting question.”
Translation:
I need approximately 30 seconds to work out what on earth I’m going to say next.
And then there’s the school admin
The children may be back at school, but so are the parents.
Within approximately seven minutes, the school-gate information network is fully operational.
“Have you seen the message?”
What message?
“About tomorrow.”
What’s happening tomorrow?
“It’s on the app.”
Of course it is.
Modern parenting appears to involve multiple apps, emails, WhatsApps and messages, each containing one critically important piece of information that you will discover at precisely 8.17am on the day it is required.
Nothing brings parents together quite like:
“Were we supposed to send something in today?”
I actually quite like September
Summer is wonderful.
I love the lack of routine, the holidays, the late nights and not having to think about whether the correct skirt is clean for the morning.
But by the end of August, everything has become slightly feral.
Bedtimes are increasingly theoretical.
The house is full of snacks.
You’ve spent an alarming amount of money entertaining a child who responds to a lovely day out by asking:
“What are we doing tomorrow?”
So I quite like September.
The rhythm comes back.
School. Home. Snack.
“How was your day?”
“Good.”
“What did you do?”
“Can’t remember.”
“What did you have for lunch?”
“Can’t remember.”
Snack.
Another snack.
Dinner.
Sudden announcement that something essential is required for school tomorrow.
Bed.
Drink.
Toilet.
An extremely important story that somehow wasn’t important during the previous twelve waking hours.
Bed again.
Somewhere between little and big
And perhaps that’s what I’m noticing most this year.
Eight feels somewhere in the middle.
She’s desperate to grow up.
I’m desperate for her not to.
She’s old enough to need me differently, but young enough to still need me enormously.
She can read her own books but sometimes wants me there. She wants independence but also wants me to watch. She’ll tell me she can do something herself and then, when she’s tired, quietly become my little girl again.
I know there will come a September when I won’t be buying school shoes on holiday.
There won’t be skirts to label or trainers to debate.
I won’t be standing at the school gate wondering whether everyone else knew it was PE day except me.
And I’m sure there are bits of it I won’t miss.
But I suspect I’ll miss far more than I think.
So when she tells me again that she can’t wait to be a grown-up, I’ll give her the same answer.
Oh yes, you can.
Stay eight for a little while longer.
Being grown up really isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
And you have to buy your own shoes.
