Jonny McCambridge: Guess who gets upset on the first day back at school

The task of equipping him for the resumption of education has mainly been undertaken by my wife. She has purchased the stationery, the uniform, the shining but stiff black shoes.

Perhaps this is why at this late stage my boy is so enthusiastic to share with me the contents of his new pencil case and, in particular, his ‘special pen’. For the first time in class this term he will be using a biro, rather than a pencil, to form his imperfect characters. When you’re seven that’s a big deal.

The special pen writes in four different colours. Even though I grasp the concept quickly my son insists on demonstrating each of the distinct tints on a separate piece of paper. I have to acknowledge and express my sense of wonder four times.

He is excited and although he goes to bed early, he cannot sleep until much later.

I feel the stirring of a different set of emotions. There was something about seeing the pen in the pencil case which brought back a memory I haven’t thought of in a long time, something unwelcome. In truth I can’t quite remember the specifics, just the feeling. Part of the memory is about preparing for school as a very young child, being bought a pen at the Lammas Fair and proudly packing it in my new pencil case. Something, I can’t quite be exact, went wrong with the pen in school and there was a low feeling of shame and discomfort.

It shouldn’t mean anything now but here I am, four decades later, and a part of my past I had presumed lost has resurfaced and I don’t quite know why.

I try to put the pieces together in my brain, to give some coherency to what I am feeling. The best I can come up with at first is some sort of sense of hopelessness about a little boy being sent out to face the big, bad world armed only with a defective biro. A purer explanation might be the awareness of an element of fear and intimidation about leaving a place of comfort to experience something much more uncertain. I must have felt it back when I was a child. I still feel it today.

Before I go to bed I check on my son, who is finally asleep, half under the covers, half above them. I kiss him lightly high on his head and he squirms involuntarily, recoiling under the wiry brush of my beard bristles. I feel that little twist inside me once again, perhaps due to my fear that he will find what has to be done as hard as I did.

It is the morning that my son returns to school for the first time in almost six months.

After such a gap there has to be a recalibration. I am still working from home but this now has to be blended with the old routine of morning and afternoon school runs.

Breakfast, which over recent months has become a loose and leisurely affair which could stretch until late in the morning, now once again becomes taut and tense.

The new school uniform has been neatly laid out on the bed for more than an hour. Lockdown has deepened my boy’s already established conviction that there is no schedule or sense of responsibility which means certain things have to be done at certain times. In the world he understands everything is done only when you feel inclined towards it. This rubs against my mania for being prepared early and there are some bitter words exchanged. He protests even more angrily when his mother tries to brush his hair.

Eventually he is ready. His blue jumper is too large and his trousers are adjusted so they don’t fall down around his ankles. There is something in the repetition of the phrase ‘He’ll grow into them’ which again causes that pulse of anxious familiarity within me.

Then, as we do on the first day of school each year, photographs are taken beside the little crab apple tree in our front garden. As we do this I begin to understand something.

My boy is relaxed and smiling as he tells me how much he is looking forward to seeing his friends. It is not forced. I remember the performer’s smile that he bravely wore on his first day in nursery or P1, covering up his fears when the camera was produced. It is not that way this year, he is genuinely excited.

The three of us drive part of the way to school and then walk the rest. As we get closer the throng of children and parents marching towards the building thickens, like lines of worker ants returning to the nest.

We have to leave our boy at the gate. He voluntarily hugs his mother and then, unusually, hugs me too. Carrying his lunchbox in one hand and his new pencil case in the other, he departs and walks in a peculiarly indirect way across the playground.

I see that the principal, who is standing guard on the shining tarmac, says some words and am surprised when my boy looks directly at him and responds. Halfway across the playground he turns and waves at us.

We continue standing at the school gate, for longer than we need to.

Parents will always worry about their children and the first day of school can magnify the mental trauma. That’s just the way it is.

But while I’m busy fretting, recollecting past ordeals and catastrophising, my son is busy with getting on with things and enjoying himself. We are there to teach our children, but sometimes we need to learn from them as well.

My son is at the far side of the playground now, about to turn the corner of the building which will take him out of our sight and towards the door of his new classroom, where he will do sums and spelling using his special pen.

But just before he disappears, he looks back and delivers a final wave towards his mother and myself. I grab my wife’s hand. In truth I think we needed the wave more than he did. Perhaps on some deep instinctive level he already understands that.

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