It's a Dad's LifeBack to school, this time with a swagger in our step. The elder has been itching to get into the classroom for weeks, ever since we got home from our jollies in the middle of August. I have never seen such enthusiasm for learning.
"When I see big Mia [ the best mate] I'm going to tell her about my cousins, and being on the boat, and going fishing and playing with my new Barbie and . . ." Okay, okay, okay, hold it up there child, check your gabble, I get the picture - you're excited to see your buddy again. What she doesn't get is she's not the only one going back; it's my return to the schoolyard too.
Last year it was all nerves and wonder. Separation anxiety and parental concern. Would the other mums and dads like me? Would my clothes be laughed at? Would I say or do the wrong things? This year? Pah, I'm the King of the Walk, the Cock of the Hoop.
We stroll up to the gates the first morning. I've been working on my harassed shuffle all summer. You have to look stressed when you roll up in the mornings because, obviously, getting a child ready for school is the most demanding task in the world. My shoulders roll, it's all South Central LA man, but you've got to mix it up with some local attitude or you're going to look silly.
All the hardcore mammys are at the gate, smoking. You don't mess with them. Maybe when the Elder gets into fifth or sixth class I might have an in, but right now I'm way down the food chain and the top brass don't tolerate fools. But I'm not at the bottom anymore, so I remind myself of that and further exaggerate the shoulder roll. Even so, I take the opportunity to moan at the child as I go by them, "C'mooon will ye or we'll be late." No harm letting them know how harried and miserable I am.
I nearly regret giving up the fags for the marathon training. I don't know if I'll ever be accepted without a JP Blue hanging from the bottom lip, but I'm pretty sure it's not worth taking them back up on the off chance. We'll have to see how that one plays out.
Into the yard and I spot the other senior infant dad. We touch knuckles and engage. "Story?" "Story?" It looks like he's been working on his shuffle but I don't mention it. It seems a bit obvious; I think he's trying too hard. We kick the stones at our feet and gaze around for new faces, hands in pockets, hoods up.
The kids are heading in and we scope the junior infant parents. Saddos, aren't they? Look at them, barely able to let go of the kids' hands, up at the windows, waving in like baboons. They're only saps. There's a dad among them, right up at the window, and he's wearing a suit even.
Eventually he pulls himself away and, I think, wipes a tear off his cheek.
Oh holy God. Me and other senior infant dad go up to him. He's pulling something out of his pocket.
"What's that ye got?
"I'm sorry. Excuse me?"
"What are ye sorry for? What's that in your hand?'
"This? It's my Blackberry, I'm just checking what I have on first thing this morning."
"Gizzit."
"I'm not going to give you my Blackberry."
"Go on, gizzit. I just wanna shot on it."
"Oh okay. Here."
"Thanks, ye sap. I'll give it back to ye tomorrow."
Me and other senior infant dad stroll off. We're practically bouncing now.
"Did ye see that, wha? The eejit. I'll let him have it tomorrow. Him and his bleedin' Blackberry, wha?"
Oh yeah, things are going to be different this year. I can feel it in my bones.
abrophy@irish-times.ie
