Lessons

Barry McPherson

'Gie yersel a shake,'' she'd said, her usual grounded steeliness curbing further attempts to mutter dolefully about next Monday's troubling event.

'Aye, a ken'' I'd responded limply. Unconvincingly. 'It's no easy though- it's a big thing- a major...milestone.''

'Aye,'' she'd laughed, kissing my cheek, flecking my lazy stubble with totey wee lip crumbs from the half chewed toast in her hand, its opposite number moving to flatten my tie and usher me off to work.

'- and wan thit's hingin' roond yer neck needlessly.''

'Ye have to let go,'' she'd continued, "accept things are movin' on. Stop being so daft and sentimental, and, sorry, but, well, selfish. It's no aboot you- It's just part of the parental contract.''

Parental contract. The phrase danced mournfully across my groggy thoughts as I gradually came too; flickering eyes adjusting to the bleary murk of no ordinary Monday - 06:15.

After a few minutes I muster a half -hearted stab at making a move, before opting to lie on until the alarm pings at quarter to seven.

The bed-side clock's red, segmented numbers seem to glare with extra urgency, added poignancy, burning through the half light like some sneering, digital harbinger of the business set to follow- This is the day, your life will surely change!

My wife's right. This was run of the mill, pleasant stuff. I was being ridiculously selfish; self-absorbed, wrapped in some weak, pathetic obsession with preserving the present. Sweating the wee stuff and allowing a wonderful, totemic moment to fizzle by in a smear of worry and dread.

I wasn't, after all, the first guy whose bairn was starting the school. A standard right of passage- An early point on the map to growing up...growing big! In short form, a good thing.

What seems like seconds later, the alarm bursts into beep, and swinging legs onto cold laminate, I slap it dead and sit lugubriously patting the morning bed-head, before moving to meet the day I'd been warding off for months.

20 minutes later we're immersed in the prosaic patter of breakfast time; my wife (gamefully) battering through last night's dishes, me hovering turgidly over a slowly heating iron, quietly surveying the (new) paraphernalia of this and weekday mornings yet to dawn: creased, small white shirt; thick, gray, school tights; green and black school tie and fresh, off the rail, immaculate black blazer - school crest proudly prominent.

Between gulps of sweet black tea and bites of thinly buttered toast, I get to work flattening the folds on the bairn's shirt, really going to town, taking my time. Making the effort. As I work, my eyes shoot to the photo collage above the microwave. Our back pages: The story so far. Frozen in perfect perpetuity: us with the bairn at Craigtoun Park; her on my shoulders in London; sandcastles on the beach at Silver Sands; her waving from a big, daft fibreglass ladybird at Burntisland shows. A dizzying sense of change flecked with mild melancholy permeates the kitchen. Change that's always been happening. Change I've steadfastly refused to acknowledge.

And then, rubbing her eyes, glorious in ruffled Singing Kettle jammies and Princess Ariel baffies, is the lady herself.

'Morning toots, you alright?'' I enquire.

'And how's our big school girl this morning?'' adds my wife in a beat, 'You excited?''

'A wee bit,'' she offers sleepily. 'Will it be like the nursery? Can I still do painting? 'Will Lauren be there?''

'Aye'' I say,'' 'all of that darlin'; it'll be brilliant, you'll have a great time.''

After spooning half eaten Weetabix into the bin and dropping the bowl into the rapidly refilling basin, I get her ready. Carefully. Lovingly, and with no lack of mark the moment ceremony. Buttoning her shirt, looping her tie, pulling up her tights. Buckling the shiniest of box-fresh shin.

By 0840 we're in the motor. Then, at last, the playground. End game. A mad bustle of clattering ebullience; bairns pinballing hither and yon; smiling parents blethering away, grateful to the gods of primary education for the fleeting respite to come.

Then the bell. Quick kiss and lingering cuddle (same from mummy) and into line she nonchalantly shuffles, gently corralled by a friendly, if slightly flustered classroom assistant.

And she looks so heartbreakingly beautiful; so official; all dolled- up in her new, almost regimental school garb.

I'm momentarily struck by something Spike Milligan said about the wee versions of your bairns simply vanishing off the face of the earth with the passing of time; their present, physical incarnations gradually (and totally) replaced by someone completely different. I feel my eyes watering and can't decide whether this is good, bad or remotely acceptable?

She turns to wave, before slipping inside, and my low level gloom is suddenly diluted with an immense swell of pride. I'm witnessing the start of an inevitable process here: the first of a thousand evolving versions of ma wee lassie, casually taking her place in the ceaseless chronology of convention. And for the first time it genuinely (amazingly) feels kind of- alright!

Before long it'll be high school; sleepovers; youth clubs; make up; teenage surliness; low level heartache. The DY dropping subtly from Daddy. Change - Ad infinitum!

'You awright, ya big saft get?'' probes my wife, as we turn to leave the playground, faux flippancy covering her own melting moment.

'Aye, better than I thought,'' I kind of half lie, 'better than I thought.'' Deep within, the chiming realisation hitting home that it's not just the bairn who's starting her lessons today.