Memory Monday - Pocket Hugs

This week's Memory is from 14 years ago.

My youngest daughter, K, at 3 years old, began to attend the local playschool group. For the previous year there had only been me and her at home during the day. My son and eldest daughter were at primary school, and with G at work all week, me and K were sort of dependant on each other for company, conversation and amusement.

She was such a happy little girl, a real cheeky grin, a huge heart and she always had a pocket full of hugs that she would dish out to whoever she thought needed one. If you looked a bit sad or fed up, she would stand beside you and say 'do you want a hug mummy' which would always invoke the biggest of smiles and she would then hold open her pocket and you would have to pick out a hug and put it in your own pocket. Once safely tucked away, she would throw her arms around you and give you the biggest, squishiest cuddle you could hope for. God knows how I used to get all her hugs into one pocket! As she got older, and began to recognise that the look of concentration was not the same as sad the hugs got less..lol

Having regularly been with me when collecting her sister from playschool prior to her starting at 'big school' she was excited about going herself, she couldn't wait to do all those exciting things her big sister had done and she was looking forward to her first visit.

Initially it was hard to leave her. Who was I going to share my day with now? I didn't work when my children were young, and so when I delivered her into the entrusted care of the playgroup leader I was to return to an empty, silent, still house. K found it equally difficult. Somewhere in her little brain she had figured that she would get to playschool, and be able to do all those things she'd been itching to do, but that I would be there on the sideline, in view, comfortingly close by. I took her in that first day, and we settled down at the jigsaw table and began a jigsaw together. After about 5 minutes, with her seemingly at ease, I took a deep breath and said

Me "OK darling, you have lots of fun and mummy will be back to pick you up in a little while"

K "Where are you going?"

M "I'm going home for a little bit while you have fun. Then when I come back you can tell me all about your morning darling"

K "AAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH, don't go, (sob, sob, sob)"

M "I have to darling, mummies aren't allowed to play here, this is just for special little people, but I won't be long"

K "No. Please don't go, (sob, sob, sob), please don't leave me (sob, sob,sob)"

Well you get the picture. I was stood there with K clinging to my legs like a frightened rabbit caught in the headlights. Not a clue what to do. I wanted to protect her from her fears, to pick her up and hold her tight. To return some of her pocket hugs. But I was having so much trouble controlling my own emotions, my own tears that I could not let her see. My instinct to grab her and leave was over-ruled by my instinct to want her to learn how to start to be independant, but not sufficiently over-ruled to know how to achieve it.

The playgroup leader came over and put her hand gently on my back. 'Don't be so bloody caring you fool' I thought to myself 'I was only just holding back the tears of guilt at putting my precious little girl through this ordeal, and now you have this ever so understanding hand on my back I can't hold it in anymore' and down my face they streaked. Her advice was to say goodbye quickly, turn round, walk away, keep walking and don't whatever you do, don't look back. She advised to get outside, then stand and listen, she assured me K would settle very quickly once I had left.

My god that was the hardest minutes walk I think I have ever taken. Every mothering bone and instinct in my body wanted to sweep K up in my arms and hold her tight, tell her everything would be OK and wipe away her tears, but I just kept walking. Once outside, I hovered. My tear-streaked face lowered to hide it from the other mothers dropping off the little ones. My ears pinned back, easily picking out the cries of my daughter above the laughter of the other 20 or so kids. A few minutes later, my ears having accustomed to the noise levels, I struggled to hear her, but there she was again. Laughing.

This ritual carried on for the first half a dozen visits, but very quickly it reverted to the quick kiss at the door, if I was lucky before she had raced away to play with her new found friends, barely glancing back to see if Mummy needed one of those special hugs.

She would play in the sand box, and the water tub, and maybe, if she could get away with it, the water would sometimes make its way to the sand box! Well, it makes the sand stick together so much easier doesn't it! She would sit with all the other children during their 'circle' time and join in with the songs, quickly learning all the actions, helped by the fact that she would come home and teach me and we would spend many hours at home together, singing these songs whilst involved in some other activity. Her favourite passtime though was painting. God she loved to paint. Invariably she would apply half a pot of blue, followed by half a pot of red, a dash of green, a splattering of yellow, a smidgen of purple and a smudge or 5 of orange to the piece of clean white paper on the easel, stand back and admire it, and feeling flushed with success at her fantastic master piece, would start on the next one.

This was great of course, for her. Not so great for me though. When I went to pick her up at lunch time she would proudly show off all her paintings, the paper soft and soggy from the sheer amount of paint that had been applied. I would have a step by step explanation of what each picture was about, who the people were that I had mistaken for blobs of paint, the house that was not there and the garden which didn't exist! I honed my acting skills over those years, people, of course I can see them, and yes darling, that does look like Daddy.

After the reviews, she would want to take them home... obviously. Have you ever tried to walk a mile in the pouring rain with a 3 year old and more paintings than an art gallery, but wet ones? No I thought not. Take my advice. Don't. By the time we got home the painting would have taken on a whole new 'modern art' look..lol, but she didn't mind, she just used to look at them, decided what they had become, and then when Dad got in she would go through her reviews for him, but it would be nothing like the ones I had been given earlier in the day.

Later on of course, I got less explanation and more

"Can you see what it is Mummy?" (blag it Ali, blag it, go on, think of something... well?... family, that's usually a safe bet, tell her it's Mummy and Daddy at home).

I never got it right of course!


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