As I pulled on my boots this morning (how is a woman to meet the world if not in a pair of stout boots?), there was not much to fear in my day. Lists were made, The Staff at work appeared all to be in place and not phoning in sick. All I had to do was follow the lists, boss people around and go to bed early – I tell myself every day that I will go to be early.
However, I was repressing the knowledge of something big, something that Loomed. It was time to go and See The Teacher at my son’s primary school. His third term report said his concentration was out of whack and discussion was required.
I have done public speaking and faced down irate company CEOs. I have met horrendous deadlines and publicly criticised The Editor. When I walk through rain, I expect to stay dry. I have given birth and survived early parenthood. I am not easily scared. But meeting the teacher is something else: you are instantly ten years old again and certain that you’ve done something wrong.
But I did it, and a fruitful discussion was had and a plan was made to try to get the boy back on track. And there’s the thing about parenthood: you will go through the fires of hell for your child. And, yes, you will go meet the teacher.