All packed and raring to go…

Early tomorrow morning R, my eldest lad, is off to France with his year-group. You can imagine how much anticipated excitement a ten-year-old would feel, out of his parents’ sight and in the company of forty-seven school friends for five days.

He’s been counting down the days for weeks, he’s tried to pack his entire wardrobe (exempting anything practical), he’s made us sit through endless hand-shadows acts (final night performance compulsory), he made me buy him Linx deodorant (the coolest don’t ya’ know), he’s taking his MP3 (we argued, I caved – but I won on his new trainers!), and there’s no room for teddy. Oh, and he tried to pack a knife.

Not a real one, he’s not quite that stupid, but it looks real from a couple of feet away. When I asked why he was trying to get himself arrested, he explained that he’s helping some friends with their final night play. It’s a murder enactment and R’s having his throat cut in the opening scene. Apart from thinking what else I could be spending his school fees on, I explained if he encounters a customs officer having a bad day, he could well find himself on the next boat home.

So out came the craft box, and half an hour later, hey presto I’ve made a dashing, blood soaked pirates’ dagger. R’s verdict on my cardboard masterpiece: ‘It’s wonky!’ From him, that’s high praise! (He’s at that stage).

So what will the next five days bring? For him: markets, sailing, castles, pony trekking, bike riding, swimming and a final night variety performance. For me: his chores, a spring clean of his room, less fights between the kids, a lonely little brother, and plenty of nail biting as I worry whether my baby will be okay; ‘coz if truth be told, I’m a nervous wreck. I’ve met with the teachers, asked all the questions, and still I can’t shift this bolder of worry. Bloody hell, I hate them growing up.

I’ll read this next week and laugh at my fretfulness. I hope.