It’s a familiar morning routine, so familiar it’s almost a rut. “Pearl, get up and get ready for school.” Time passes… “Pearl, get up and get ready for school!” Time passes… “PEARL! Get UP!”
“I hate school! I’m not going!” You don’t hate school, you hate getting ready for school. Get up now. “I do hate school! Trust me, I really hate it.” Get up now anyway.
So eventually she gets up, and more eventually she gets dressed, and is presented with breakfast which eventually she deigns to eat. She protests about bringing out her schoolbag and putting her lunchbox in it, she protests about putting her drink bottle in her bag, and then she protests about getting her hair gear together.
I comb and plait and gel her hair, with accompanying “ow!”s and moans. I remind her that we can always cut her hair short, and the moans decrease, replaced by huffs and resentful silence.
She disappears, probably to read in her bedroom. I ask her to put on shoes and coat. I ask again. I roar. She comes flouncing out “What do you mean, put on my shoes?” Insouciance personified. I count to ten under my breath. In Russian (it’s more satisfying).
Finally, we are out the door and walking to school. She chatters away about anything and everything, the drama of the morning behind her. At school, she is swept up with her friends, barely looking up to say goodbye.
After school, she comes out beaming, full of everything they’ve done. She’s had such a great day, Mum! And this happened, and we did that, and tomorrow we can do such-and-such, it’s sooo fun trust me Mummy.
And next morning… “I hate school! I am NOT going.”
