I just want to be with you

It's been a few weeks since I've written anything. And that's because we've been on holiday to the 1950s. Almost. We've actually been to the family cottage that doesn't have a television, radio, internet connection or (on this occasion, courtesy of those lovely people at BT) a telephone for a period of time. So we had to make our own entertainment, which turns out to be much easier than in used to be. Approximately seventeen times a day, BigBear and I exchanged words or looks that more or less boiled down to, "do you remember what horrifically hard work it was being on holiday here with a six-month old? Isn't this better?"

But, to put your minds at rest, I'm not going to bore you all with how lovely my holiday was, and how much fun it's now possible to have with a six-and-a-half year old. I may come back to that.

Instead, I'm going to draw you inexorably into the downside of coming home, and of finding ways to get one small boy and two working parents through the remaining three and a half weeks of school holidays.

In a frenzy of organisation last term I managed to make plans for LittleBear to attend a few days here and there of various holiday clubs, interspersed with BigBear and I both taking days off work. I also have the luxury of working 22.5 hours a week and being allowed to fit that in however I want (within reason). During term time that equates to 4.5 hours a day, and being able to collect LittleBear from school every day. During the holidays it equates to three normal-length working days, during which BigBear stays at home for one day, and LittleBear goes to some club or other for two days. Simple really, isn't it?

This week started reasonably well - LittleBear went to holiday club on Monday, and came home chirpy and hungry; he stayed home with BigBear on Tuesday and me on Wednesday. So, without a care in the world, off we went to holiday club today. Admittedly, LittleBear was a little tired, having woken in the night (unusually for him), but I didn't think there was anything particularly amiss.

And then we arrived at holiday club, and after helping him hang his bag and coat up and put his lunch where he could find it, I found a small paw had snuck its way into my hand and I looked down to find a tear-streaked face gazing up at me.

"I just want to be with you Mummy," he whispered.

I crouched down to see what was wrong, and a pair of soft arms wrapped themselves round my neck and a damp face pressed itself against mine to whisper again and again, "I just want to be with you."

There seemed to be nothing I could do to reassure or calm my little boy. He was adamant that he would be sad, and that there was nothing that he wanted to do or play with, he just wanted to come home with me. It didn't matter that I wasn't going home, there was no rational thought in my baby's desperate insistence that he be with me, he was just distraught. His face grew red and blotchy as the tears kept falling, and he clung to me, even when I sat on the floor beside him to try and help him start on an activity. It was like being back at nursery again, where every single day for four years, he would cling to me and beg me to stay. At least at nursery we escaped tears most of the time, and at least at nursery I was confident that within five minutes he'd be charging around having fun and would have forgotten all about me.

This time, where I didn't know any of the staff, and LittleBear only had one classmate (not one of his particular friends, just A Girl He Knows) I was not at all confident that he would perk up. But after over half an hour of comforting, cajoling and jollying without making any progress, I finally had to bite the bullet and leave. I left a little face, gazing over the shoulder of one of the leaders, waving forlornly at me as I left.

I drove to work in floods of tears, wondering, as I so often do, whether I'd made the wrong decision. Whether I should have just said "sod it" to work, and scooped my baby up and taken him home. Would that have reassured him (and me) that I would look after him, no matter what? Or would it merely have damaged any hope of him ever finding a way to cope with new situations? I can't protect him from everything; I can't remove him from every situation that he doesn't like; I can't allow him to avoid everything he's not in the mood for. But how much distress is too much? How far can I allow his stress and anxiety to go before I step in and say, "enough"?

The answer is, I'll never know. I made today's decision today, and there's no undoing it now. I spent the day at work distracted, distressed, stressed and unhappy. I'm not sure I was either a very nice person to work with, or a very productive employee. I left early to collect my baby and found him happily playing football with his favourite leader (who wasn't there this morning). He had apparently continued crying in the morning, but cheered up and been absolutely fine in the afternoon. He didn't even seem in a particular hurry to come home. And he was absolutely caked in mud, which can only be a good thing.

High tide marks for the socks

I've cancelled tomorrow morning's session at holiday club. I'm going to work from home instead. I've explained to LittleBear that he must play with lego, or do colouring or junk modelling or whatever he wants without me helping in the morning. He says that's fine because, "I'll be able to come over and sneak a cuddle now and then won't I?"

Of course you will my darling boy, of course you will.