I stifled a sob as my little girl took her first grown-up steps
Saturday September 05 2009
Preparations for my daughter's first day at school were not going well. Strike that. They were going well, until I watched Jersey Girl with Ben Affleck and some miniature Bonnie Tyler-type kid the other night.
The plot is a cliché-fest resting on a bed of schmaltz, but it does feature a dad and a daughter and that, it seemed, was enough to get me going.
I'm not saying I shed actual tears, but there was a welling somewhere in the chest/upper thoracic area during the bit where Ben Affleck (who showed distinct signs of acting) decides not to move back to the big city and not to hang around for his big job interview so that he can make it back to take part in the midget Bonnie Tyler's school musical.
I should point out that hooking up with Liv Tyler was also part of the not-moving-to-Manhattan deal, so maybe I was reading too much into the dad-daughter dynamic.
Up to that point, Operation First Day at School had been proceeding with military precision. The stipulated equipment (viz a Little Miss Sunshine knapsack) had been procured. Provisions (an apple and a yoghurt) had been laid down.
Detailed background work had been completed in advance of negotiations over dress code on D-Day. My daughter has surprisingly entrenched views on matters sartorial, so I was prepared to do battle over the Snow White dress-up dress.
My arguments were flawless, my logic impeccable. My fall-back position ("let's not actually wear it, love, but we'll take it along just in case") was devilishly cunning.
I had made all the preparations expected of the parent of a child going into junior infants, yet I was not prepared for my own feelings.
After the Ben Affleck incident, I wondered if I could be trusted to hold it together at the school gate at all.
I imagined myself being carried out in a blizzard of Kleenex, or sobbing on the shoulder of the redoubtable headmistress.
The mums who had been through this before all confirmed it was a tough one.
It's a turning point, the first step on the slippery slope that ends with her coming home and announcing that she's pregnant by someone off X Factor.
My memories of my own first day at school were not helping either. I can still picture Declan Daly being peeled off his mother on that fateful day in 1967 in CBC Monkstown. His cries haunt me yet.
I began to wonder if I was making too big a deal of the whole thing.
After all, my own dad took a sporadic interest in my schooldays. Our paths would sometimes cross on the landing or at the breakfast table.
"How are things at school?" he would ask.
"Fine," I would reply.
"What class are you in these days?" he would inquire.
"Fifth class."
"Any exams coming up or anything like that?"
"No, dad."
Looking back, I suppose it was a refreshing change from the helicopter parenting and performance pressure you get these days. At least he didn't ask what school I was at.
D-Day dawned and I found my plans were unnecessary. I mean, they were lovely plans, but they were a bit like the US invasion of Iraq -- they bore very little relation to conditions on the ground.
I spent ages tearing the study apart to find my daughter's PPS number, for instance, and was completely unprepared for my little girl's serene acceptance of her fate. She actually seemed to be looking forward to it.
The cycle to the school passed peacefully. The march up the steps went well too, I thought.
She bounded over to the crescent of kids sitting before the teacher and took her place without demur.
I waited to see her settled, but there was no need. She blew me a little kiss as I was leaving. I just hope she didn't hear the manly sob that issued from my chest/upper thorax area in the corridor outside.
Ben bloody Affleck, I muttered, as I gathered myself for the lonely journey home.
drobbins@independent.ie
- David Robbins
