Students' and Parents' Experiences
From Child to Adult
I could afford to be blasé. Unusual family circumstances meant that he´d been at boarding school since he was twelve. The process of packing up, driving for several hours and parting had become a routine process, though we never got it down to a fine art. Why should this time be any different?
I was impressed by how little he was taking with him. Previous students in the family had loaded our small car to the gunwales with all sorts of luxuries – TV, videos, hoards of music, even the odd potted plant – that they couldn´t possibly live without. The fairly sparse storage space of school had clearly had an influence. But we were in some disarray after our recent house move and even vital necessities took a bit of tracking down; the third consecutive "farewell to friends" night had to be abandoned -there is, after all, only so much a body can take.
The drive to Sheffield felt reassuringly calm, the M1 only normally busy and no hold-ups, thank heaven, as a speedy turnaround was needed to ensure cover for disabled husband and new puppy back at the ranch. Open Day seemed a long time ago, but nevertheless we finally managed to locate Ranmoor – albeit on the wrong side. A few three point turns later and we were backing into the last remaining space in the car park, and soon being led through a maze of paths and corridors to what was to be Jack´s personal space for the next ten weeks or so.
It was only on my way home that it hit me. Or they did: the whole host of memories that sneaked up and took me by surprise as I negotiated my route to the motorway. The time I´d asked what he wanted to be called when he started school; I´d meant John or Jack, but he thought for a moment and told me Tom. His first day at school in the south, where the teacher, unable to understand his thick Middlesbrough accent, asked if we´d arrived from Australia. The little boy who´d turned heads in the football stadium as he tried with his unusually loud voice and appalling timing to start the various chants going. The skinny eight year old I´d had to rescue from the goal mouth where he stood huddled, turning blue with cold when all the play was at the other end. The twelve-year-old newly delivered to the boarding house of the state comprehensive, full of gung-ho that visibly evaporated as the hefty year 11s entered the room.
Then all those years largely lost to me as he´d developed a social life and support network away from home and family. And now here he was, suddenly it seemed, legally an adult, pretty much mature, responsible to a point, independent, capable, optimistic. Good luck, Jack, do well my son, and enjoy the opportunities that university brings. But don´t forget to let me in on some it. Please.
Maggie Rich