I have received several letters from Sophie’s school this term. Most of them I just ignore. The one about her class paying a visit to the comprehensive school was headed ‘For Parents’ Information Only’. Somehow that ‘Information’ really got to me. Sophie will soon be moving up to the ‘big school’, yet it only seems like five minutes ago that I was gently encouraging her to sit down on those tiny nursery classroom chairs and mopping up the soft tears rolling down her chin. Happily, Sophie quickly settled in and the small furniture was exchanged for slightly larger and less colourful items, as she moved through the infant classes. Then, did I blink an eye as she raced through the years in the junior department? All those assemblies and Christmas performances have merged into one production in which, scene after scene, term after term, the scripts became more sophisticated, the acting more professional and the actors grew taller and taller. Yet, the love for my daughter has never changed.
Last week’s letter was about ‘Missing Property’. The head teacher had used clever words to sound positive about the fact that there had been a spate of thefts from the corridors.
“The Parent Teacher Association has a fund to support parents who would like to purchase a school uniform and are having difficulties with the challenging rise of the cost of living. We are here to help.”
To me it sounds more like a supermarket advert than an offer of support from a centre for learning.
The letter continued:
“It is important that all our pupils take care of their belongings. To help them achieve this, we ask parents to ensure that all clothing is clearly labelled with their full names and, please remember, do not send your child to school with any valuable items (e.g. electronics or jewellery).”
The fanfare announcement at the end of the letter is printed in bold:
“We have set up a new Lost Property Box which is located in the reception area outside Mrs Green’s office. Children and parents are encouraged to check this box regularly. Pupils can become very distressed over losing something that is precious to them and it can have a negative impact on their learning.”
So as a good parent, this Monday morning, I find myself ironing Sophie’s name tags on to various pieces of her uniform. Of course, I have left it to the very last minute, which is something I often accuse Sophie of. I think it is in our genes.
Once again, I am thankful for internet shopping; iron-on labels, printed with your child’s name. I don’t have the skills to sew ‘Sophie Smith’ into half a dozen garments.
Sophie is impatiently hovering around me, keen to get her school sweatshirt back. As has become the recent norm, Sophie is standing on her hands, feet kicking at thin air. I have to admit that it is quite impressive how long she can stay in that position.
“Hurry up, Di will be here in a minute,” she demands. Her head is somewhere around my knees.
“I can only strike when the iron is hot,” I respond. My humour disappears, like the steam from the iron.
Her friend Di will be ringing at the front door any minute now.
Back in September, they started to walk to school together. I pacified my worries about the traffic and kidnapping, but wasn’t too successful in hiding one fact from myself; Sophie didn’t need me to walk her to school anymore. I had been replaced by an eleven year old.
Putting a label on her clothes doesn’t give me ownership, but it shows that we share a name and a history; an eleven year history, probably more intense than many other people experience. Being her single parent from the day she was born, surely means that she has taken a lot more from me than just my name.
“There you go, my love,” I say, tossing the sweatshirt over to her. Sophie performs a forward roll and smartly stands up on her feet. She glances at the label, probably checking that I have stuck it down properly, pulls it over her head and tugs it down snuggly onto her developing body.
“I’m glad it still fits you,” I say.
“I’m not sure why we have to bother with all this labelling stuff. I’m leaving in four weeks.”
Sophie has, not for the first time, totally ignored my comment.
“Oh and ‘Thank You’,” I add, with more than a hint of sarcasm.
She smiles and says: “Thanks.”
Standing in front of the mirror, she does a quick twirl. The sweatshirt looks a little tight for my liking, but I don’t have to wear it.
Sophie walks out of the room as if striding down the catwalk at a Parisian fashion show. Reaching the glass door, she dramatically turns and blows me a kiss.
“If you like, I am happy to walk you to school,” I call out. “But not on my hands.”
Her response is to laugh.
She thinks I am joking.
Over the last few months it has dawned on me that Sophie is no longer totally mine. Her friends, the school and the clubs she attends have all claimed parts of her. Sophie has become a much more independent person. I have been downgraded to a minor shareholder; a position that is not a problem for Sophie. No, it is my problem.
Encouraging independence isn’t quite as easy as it seems.
It means letting go when you want to hold tight.
Pushing away when you want to pull in.
Accepting views that you want to reject.
You still have the full responsibility, without full control.
But I love it and, even though I say it myself, I think I’m doing an okay job.
The door bell chimes, indicating that Di has arrived.
“Remember to get your packed lunch from the fridge,” I call down.
“Got it.”
“Thanks,” I say quietly.
I am sure her sentences are the only thing about her that haven’t grown.
“Have a great day. See you tonight, my love.”
“Bye.” And the door slams shut.
I watch them both making their way down the path. They’re laughing as Di turns Sophie’s collar over, checking out the name tag. I move closer towards the window, just in case they give me a wave as they walk past the front of the house. They don’t. For a few seconds I have to fight a touch of disappointment. Just seeing her being happy with her friend has to be the most important thing though.
Sophie has dropped her school PE clothes on the chair, ready to be labelled. I remember my mum sewing names into my school uniform. Every letter hand-stitched, neatly and securely. Mum must have been pleased I have such a short name. Her sewing was more robust than the clothes themselves. I recall her biting the wool whenever she’d finished a piece. Scissors didn’t seem to be an option.
Picking up Sophie’s tracksuit bottoms, I wonder if my mum had the same feelings I am experiencing now, watching me grow up and develop an independent life. Mum certainly got the balance right, I often use her as a role model and ask myself, “what would you do in this situation, Mum”?
I’ll give her a call later to see if she wants to come over for tea tonight.
I stretch the waist band of the training pants over the end of the ironing board and cut another ‘Sophie Smith’ from the ever shrinking strip. I carefully place it on the inside of the hem, next to the faded washing instructions. As I’m just about to press the hot iron down, I stop. I am sure she’ll find this funny: I’ll turn the name round and fix it in place, upside down. Sophie will pretend to be shocked and disappointed when she sees it and insist that I redo it. But I know it will make her laugh.
Pleased that the task is completed, I fold Sophie’s school gear and pile it on her bed, ready for inspection. Leaving the iron to cool, I collapse the ironing board and push it back into the cupboard on the landing. It’s time for a cup of tea. I think I deserve it.
The letter from the school is still sitting on the edge of the work bench. As I wait for the tea to brew, I check through it to make sure that I haven’t missed anything. I am pleased to read that I have completed all the tasks, just as the school had demanded: Ownership is clearly identified and now there will be no “distress over losing something precious.”
But, how do I prevent upset over a loss of MY precious possession? There is no ‘Lost Property Box’ outside Mrs Green’s office for parents to rummage through, when searching for their disappearing children. Sticking your family name on them doesn’t guarantee they will always find their way back to you. Staying together is not as simple as that.
My mum arrives before Sophie has got back from school. She gives me a hug, flops into the chair and stares hopefully at the kettle.
“It has already boiled,” I tell her.
“Not too strong,” we both say in unison, as I drop the teabag into her favourite china cup.
“Sophie should be home by now. You won’t believe this, but I had to put her name into all her clothes. A new school rule.” I don’t mention how easy it was, using the stick-on labels. I’ll let her think that I have developed some new skills.
On cue, I hear the front door close and Sophie joins us in the kitchen.
“Hi Gran. You okay?”
My mum nods and sticks her cheek out to receive a gentle kiss from her granddaughter.
“And how was school today?” She asks.
“Fine. At least no one stole my sweatshirt! And guess what,” she adds.
We don’t guess, we just wait for her to tell us.
“Di and me have been chosen to show the new kids around the school, when they do their visit next week.”
“That’s great. It will get you away from the lessons for a while,” I say.
Sophie gives me one of her looks, before I go on: “And don’t forget to show them the Lost Property Box outside Mrs Green’s room. You can tell them to sit in it, if they get lost.” Now it is my mum who laughs, but Sophie just gives me another one of her looks. “Oh, and by the way, I’ve put names in all your other gear. It’s on the bed, if you want to check it out.”
“Right. Will do,” Sophie replies and heads upstairs.
“She’s lovely. You’re doing a great job,” Mum tells me.
“Thanks Mum. I have a good teacher, of course.” We both smile.
“Hey!” Sophie shouts down from her room.
I put a finger over my lips to tell my mum to stay quiet. She’s clearly confused. She becomes even more puzzled when the kitchen door opens and in walks Sophie; on her hands. Wearing her school PE pants, she stops and leans her feet against the wall near the light switch.
“I thought you’d put my name on upside down. But of course you haven’t. It is just perfect. As long as I’m doing handstands!” Sophie giggles, as she speaks.
Dropping into a forward roll, she rises, stands next to me and gives me a high-five.
“And thank you,” I say.
“Thanks. You are the best,” she replies.
Sophie pulls me in close, gives me a loving hug and whispers in my ear: “Thank you Dad, for putting my name tags in.”
From behind Sophie’s back, I give my mum the thumbs up.
“Great work, Son. Sophie is a real Smith through and through, with or without those labels,” my mum proclaims.
Sophie lets go, moves next to her grandma, glances hopefully at the oven door and asks: “What’s for tea, Dad?”.
She is definitely a Smith.
Published: People’s Friend
