Nothing feels worse than leaving a tearful child in the capable hands of their teacher when they would much rather be with you, and you with them.
So walking away from a tearful seven year old this morning was pretty heart-wrenching.
Thankfully IJ emerged from school this afternoon looking much brighter, with the upset of this morning clearly behind her.
Thank goodness.
Noticing the obvious spring in her step, I could breathe a sigh of relief, for the time being at least.
The improvement in her mood seems to be the result of playing her very first game of hockey, which apparently is a bit like Quidditch – the game she thinks I played at school, for reasons unknown.
She went on to tell me in slightly animated fashion:
IJ: And we have a brand new teacher!
Me: Ooh, what’s his name?
IJ: Mr Young.
Me: So is he young then? *snigger*
IJ: No.
Me: So how old do you think he is?
IJ: About 25.
Me: Right.
So with my fortieth birthday just a couple of years away I’ve decided to start lying about my age. Otherwise there is a danger of being considered ‘ancient’.
If I haven't fallen off my broomstick by then.
