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So this week, I took Roy to school for
the first time. Now, it's just a "pre-school", which doesn't sound like a school,
but when you walk in there, you KNOW it's a school because your entire psyche
is screaming "SCHOOL!". There's Judy, the person who meets you. A forms and
money person. When you were at school, you probably never saw her unless you
were slipping about in that shadowy area known as "The Office".
And, yes, as we walk in with Roy, here's "The Office", full of grown-up sized
desks, chairs and paper, lots and lots of paper. And here are people walking
around in hallways that lead to rooms that have different functions, unknown
to you. All of these people clearly know where they are going, which makes you
feel inferior and slightly worried. The fact that they are between two and four
years old makes no difference. They know where they're going. You don't.
June takes us to the "Caterpillar" room. Roy is going to be a "Caterpiller".
I am slightly disappointed - yes, caterpillars turn into butterflies and that's
fine and sentimental and a Correct Parental Thought, but I would have liked,
I dunno, "Badger" or "Huggy Bear" or something. Something more huggable, since
the Hugging Years are certainly short (one to about nine and then thirty onwards,
we should be so lucky). This is one of many strands of thought that will no
doubt continue for a decade or two - Caterpillar vs Badger, Yale vs Community
College, the Army vs Hanging Out in Europe Ostensibly Not Getting Massively
Into Sex and Drugs.
The Caterpillar Room contains The Caterpillars, who will very soon become Roy's
First Tribe. They are milling around with that bizarre seriousness that two-year-olds
have. Naomi is concentrating hard on covering a plastic lion with a fluorescent
orange gloopy mixture. Max is fixated on drawing a straight line just slightly
to the right of a piece of paper on a table which is 18 inches off the ground.
But then I think, why is this concentration bizarre? To Roy and his generation,
figuring out how to cut the Orange Gloopy Stuff with scissors is just as serious
as my friends figuring out how to deal with the boss, or the aging parents.
Each is an everyday problem requiring some real attention. It strikes me that
everybody considerably younger that you, regardless of actual age, appears to
be behaving either a) much too seriously or b) completely out of control. Roy
can manage both of these at the same time.
Jennifer approaches. She is The Teacher. My feelings of inadequacy immediately
increase. She has that scary, antisceptic mixture of brusque competence and
energy that I associate with everybody that every nailed me for screwing up
a spelling test. I associate the energy with suppressed rage on her part - how
could anybody do her job without being full of suppressed rage? I can't imagine
it.
"Hi Roy" she says, "come on in, my friend". And just like that, Roy's Big Vacation
is over. For the last two years, although he'll never really know it, he's been
in holiday camp. Want to run? Just shout "RUN" at the nearest parent and head
downhill as fast as possible. Eat? Shout "WANT CHOCOLATE". Sleep (fat chance)?
Just keel over and start to drool. Anything you want, any time. Milk at 4am?
Cake for breakfast? Baseball in the bath? Just crack a smile and the parents
melt like runny cheese and organize it.
Ahhh, but Life Is Not Like That. Life requires work, and discipline and practice.
This is the Big Secret we grownups know, or think we know, or have some idea
we ought to know, and "preschool" is the first of many blunderingly well-intentioned
attempts to get some of this across.
The room exudes a cheerful Order. There are named hooks and pigeon holes for
his stuff. SIgned art on the wall. A schedule on the door. A schedule! HE'S
ONLY TWO! I want to shout! HE DOESNT NEED A SCHEDULE! But maybe he does. I dont
know. He has to learn sometime. Does he? Can't I raise a human being who has
no idea what a schedule is? He'd be happy for quite a while, I'd imagine. Spend
loads of time making unnecessary things, throwing balls around and hanging out
with his little friends. But then how would he get his shit together? Do I care,
really? I love people who don't get their shit together! Well I guess that's
not strictly true, is it? People who dont get their shit together are wonderful,
tap the energy of the universe, show the rest of us magical things about love
and freedom and happiness! And then something horrible happens and they get
AIDS or run out of money and call up at 4am and beg, or get drunk at breakfast
and hit people they live with. So. OK. I'll get his shit together for him! No.
No. I can't do that. That won't work. At least, not indefinitely, and as with
everything parental, we're talking indefinitely, cosmically, forever. For Ever.
Guess that's why we're here. Ah well.
Ah! There's the Caterpiller Fuck Up and Bully! I knew he was around somewhere.
His name is Alex, and he's already a bit overweight, and immediately sizes Roy
up as a challenge, so stands right in front of him, bears his teeth and growls.
Seriously! Since Roy has not yet entered society as a whole, he hasn't come
across much aggression, so he's baffled and ignores him. So Alex knocks him
over. At this point you can see Alex's life stretching out for decades - the
constant hassling for attention, the persecution of people who might be weaker
than him, the failures, divorce, drinking and a botched suicide attempt leaving
him paralysed on the left side. Or not. He might work out. Just at that moment,
I'm not inclined to give him much benefit of the doubt.
Oh! And there's the class Hopeless Person. His name is Max. He looks really
bad at the moment - very fragile - purple, grey and red rings round his eyes
from fatigue and constant crying. His parents are trying to leave him behind,
and Max is having a giant panic attack. They are nervous and worried and a little
embarrassed so finally Jennifer takes control, grabs Max, shoes them outside
and shuts the door. Two minutes later, there is the unmistakable sound of a
toddler's head slamming into a door at incredible speed. Max has accelerated
across the classroom and hit the door at a dead run in a hopeless mixture of
frustration, anger and sheer toddler energy. The door opens, and his mother,
who for some reason has stayed glued to the other side, sticks her face into
the classroom, treats us to an awful anguished expression and asks "was that
his head?" as if she didn't recognize it immediately.
Anyway. We settle down and Roy gets comfortable and starts hurling dinosaurs
across the room, which is how we know he's happy, and then Jennifer gets everybody
together to sample Foods Made With Milk. Without a word, Roy wanders across
the classroom, grabs a tiny blue chair, and sits down at the table. As I'm watching
from about 20 feet away, he starts playing with the girl sitting next to him,
catching the eye of the boy across the table, and I can see I'm gone. Not finally,
not for a long time yet. But going. A little while from now, this will be his
first tribe, and he will be absorbing them three times a week in detail and
with great care, and we will be just that little bit less necessary, our connection
and immersion in each other just that tiny bit less complete, another little
step taken in the separation that started the moment he was born.
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