As One Door Closes...

They say as one door closes another one opens and I am reminded of this today, son number one’s last day at preschool.

Things like this tend to sneak up on me then jump out when I least expect it. People kept warning me the preschool years would pass quickly but I brushed them off, even when the last term began it felt like ages away. But it has finally hit me that my baby is now a big boy about to start his journey into the world. Preschool was the test run, now for the real thing.

I have tried not to arouse any suspicion or anxiety in son number one (or myself) by only ever casually mentioning that his pre school career is about to end and he will soon be catapulted into the world of ‘big school’; where you can’t take your toys in, or wear your Buzz costume instead of uniform any time the fancy takes you, and being friends with everyone without question gives way to the serious playground politics. It doesn’t seem like five years ago that he determinedly refused to enter this world of his own accord, and that determination to stay close to me has remained. Two years ago he had to be cajoled into entering preschool and it took weeks for him to join the other kids at circle time. Now he runs in willingly, often forgetting to say goodbye. But another one opens, and we are back to the start. I have no doubt that the same anxiety will rear its head and more cajoling and gentle pushing will be required to get him in the door. I’m sad and wistful, and just a little bit anxious.

Being a stay at home mum, preschool has been my first experience of leaving him anywhere other than with family, and I was lucky enough to find a preschool where they have made him (and me) feel safe and secure in our first forays apart. It’s been a learning experience for son number one, and so too for me. Preschool has taught me to get myself and two children into the car at the same time (admittedly always late) everyday, wash a school uniform (breaking me in gently with just a t-shirt, I am now going to have to get more complicated with PE kits and school trousers), live by school holidays and learn to trust, lean on and seek advice from teachers who see things in my son that I don’t, and know how he acts when I am not around.

We can learn a lot from looking at kids, whether we are parents or not, and watching them experience the world. The last couple of years taught me that bringing a child up is not an exclusive job, but the task falls on everyone that child has contact with, parents, family members, teachers, friends, even people who would never expect to have influence often do. Children soak up the best of what they see around them, they have no preconceptions or judgements of people, they are trusting, always see the good in people and usually overlook the bad. They see delight in the smallest of things, what to us is just a bottle of bubble mixture to kids is better than a winning lottery ticket. To us it’s a cardboard box, to them it’s a castle to protect from dragons and randomly, sharks. They often seem wise beyond their years yet so innocent and unaware of their wisdom. The saddest thing about childhood is, in my opinion, that most of us grow up and lose this sense of wonder, trust and imagination. Maybe if we could all hold on to, or reconnect with, these things the world would be a happier place.

And another one opens, not just for son number one but for me too. I will now need to help him make sense of this new world he is about to enter, understand why he isn’t invited to everyone’s parties, be brave when he falls over and there is no longer a friendly preschool teacher or me to kiss it better, and hold his head high when his feelings have been hurt.

Son number one may be ready for this transition, but I am lagging behind. I’m really going to miss preschool stage, and have loved seeing him grow from a baby clinging onto me, to a little person with a life of his own.

Thank you to everyone at the preschool, all the teachers, all the kids and all the mums and dads who help to make it the family it is. We will miss you. But we can’t wait to get back there in a few months with Son Number Two. All I can say is good luck with that one.

I'm an HSP... are you?

My first subscription issue of She magazine arrived on my doormat on Saturday morning. Behold the humble magazine! Where else can you get sex tips, fashion advice, celebrity gossip and psychological analysis all in one place? Genius.

In this months issue, I got a peek into a day in the life of a freelance writer, found out how one female blogger blogged about her sex life for 52 weeks, discovered what I should be wearing and eating this week, read an in depth interview with Cameron Diaz and, in the space of one article, two small pages, single-handedly answered one of the biggest questions that has been plaguing me my entire life: Why do I think too much?

It turns out that after a brief self test I can confidently diagnose myself a “highly sensitive person”. While anyone who knows me or has read many of my blog posts will be saying “Well, hello? You’ve only just worked that out?” for me it was a real eye opener to discover why I lie in bed obsessing for two hours about whether or not I had offended the check out lady by asking if she had grandchildren, and what exactly did the man mean when he said I’m high maintenance?

American psychologist Elaine Aron has written many books on the subject of highly sensitive people (HSP’s), what it’s like to be the parent of a highly sensitive child (I might be making a purchase of that one as son number one is displaying HSP tendencies), or the partner of an HSP (that’ll be on the man’s crimbo list) and has a pretty in depth website for anyone wishing to know more.

I took the self test on the website and answered 24 out of the 26 questions in the affirmative. I’d say that was pretty conclusive. Innately anxious (check), susceptible to caffeine (check), nervous when performing in front of people, rich complex inner life, constantly obsessing about offending other people, check, check and check. It didn’t say often described as neurotic, obsession with self help books or taking time-wasting yet seemingly helpful self tests online, but I’d say that goes without saying.

Being highly sensitive is very common according to Aron, who believes up to a fifth of the population might be HSP’s. So of my 200 facebook friends, 40 of them are probably HSP’s as well. And it’s not something that we can do anything about, it’s actually something that has been found in our genetic makeup. So despite us trying to change our behaviour and “grow a pair” (as I’m often told to do), it’s like using coloured contact lenses, I can have blue eyes on the outside, but I know on the inside my eyes are still hazel.

But before you start feeling sorry for our affliction (please don’t, we’ll only obsess about it), there are some upsides to being an HSP. Apparently we are also unusually creative people, attentive and thoughtful partners (the man take note, my ‘high maintenance’ is good for you) and intellectually gifted (yes it’s official, I am a genius, despite my A-level results saying otherwise).

So what do we do with this new found knowledge of ourselves? Well for a start we can stop obsessing about the fact there is something ‘wrong’ and see it as the gift it is. OK life might be just a little more hard work for us than people who are not HSP’s (and admittedly more hard work for those around us, the man regularly has to spend hours placating me when I think I might have inadvertently hurt someone’s feelings or said the wrong thing: “Just chill OUT babe, it’s perfectly acceptable to say “you’re looking well” to a pregnant woman”). We might find it impossible to quieten the chatter in our brains, I am always jealous of the man when I ask him what he’s thinking about “What do you mean what am I thinking about? I’m eating my breakfast, I’m thinking about my breakfast”. Sometimes it feels like my brain never sleeps, in those rare times when I’m supposed to be sleeping in, my eyes are closed but my head is going a mile a minute with plans for the day, the week, the month ahead, I seriously need to deflea and worm the cats and did I say the wrong thing in that situation that happened fifteen years ago and doesn’t matter now anyway?

But I am also lucky enough to have found an outlet for my creativity (and neuroses) in my writing, and obsessing about offending people means that hopefully I won’t do it, and if I do, I will be aware of it and apologise (probably a little too profusely).

The best part of my new discovery is finally feeling that I’m not alone. I’m actually part of a rather exclusive club. There must be millions of people all over the country who are right now obsessing over whether or not the flippant use of “you’re looking well” actually meant they looked as if they were piling on the pounds.

See, that is why I love magazines. I’ve found all this out without having to spend a fortune on expensive therapy sessions or spending two hours in a germy doctor’s waiting room. Now I’m going to go and discover how Cameron Diaz gets her flat stomach.