My week off work is drawing to a close. I was going to write about the bitter irony of being unable to enjoy the last few days of annual leave on account of the growing fear of it ending. But I'm trying to fend off that problem - and its mental health implications - by not thinking about it. So I'll leave that cheery subject for another day. Instead, I want to talk about something I've had the opportunity to experience more than usual this week: the slightly less perilous anxiety that is picking up my child from school.
I have always been on the shy side, but I have no recollection of it causing me any major issues when I was at school. Evidently, I was sufficiently polite and friendly by the age of four that little problem was posed by my need to know somebody for about six months before I'll have a proper conversation with them. I muddled through. More recently, several years of working in customer service have honed my previously non-existent small talk skills. I can chat inane nonsense with the best of them, when I have to. I've even developed what I imagine to be a winning smile.
But my victory of sorts over these social demons didn't stop me fearing for my older daughter's emotional wellbeing when she started school in September. In her early years, she had shown signs of having similarly bashful characteristics. Everything we had seen of her at nursery suggested that she enjoyed her own company, as the euphemism goes. Of course, there's nothing wrong with that, but only if it's not because you have no other options. The thought of any four year-old being the one in the corner, looking on longingly at the groups he or she is excluded from, is heartbreaking. The thought of this being your own child is unbearable.
I needn't have worried. Within days, my daughter had made what promised to be good friends. Now, two months later, it's difficult to imagine her ever parting ways with some of her companions, such is the bond they've formed. My pride in her for being a better mingler than me is matched only by the guilty relief I feel as a result of having doubted her in the first place.
No: the problem is still me. When I waited outside the gate for her at 3.15 this afternoon, I realised that my own demons are far from fully conquered. I stood in the corner, looking on longingly at the groups I'm excluded from. Some of these groups I shall lose no sleep over: the ambitious business types, tapping their expensively-shoed feet impatiently on the playgound in an ostentatious demonstration of how precious their time is, falling just short of resenting their children for wasting it by needing to be collected; or the young mums, who still have the energy and motivation to invest time in their own appearances as well as their children*. I have nothing against this faction; I just have nothing in common with them. I can't imagine them enjoying my company, which of course is really the root of all shyness.
But what really hurts is to find myself on the outside of one particular circle: the bald dads.
I'm told that baldness is a symptom of high testosterone levels in men. Perhaps this explains the surprisingly high correlation between fatherhood and being follically challenged. I was painfully aware of this phenomenon in my own case, but only discovered its prevalence when my daughter started school, and I was surrounded by gloriously reflective pates like mine. At that point, I dared to dream that I had found my people; here was somewhere I might belong. There was even an early trip to the park (with our children), during which I cracked a couple of funnies which seemed to go down well amongst my depilated comrades. I flashed them a winning smile. The early signs were promising.
But I rested on my laurels. Instead of pressing home my advantage and cementing my place as Funny Bald Dad, I fell back, too content on the periphery of the mid-afternoon circle, unable to bring myself to contribute to the conversation. I could blame it on the fact that I haven't been able to do the school run for a few weeks, due to my work schedule, and have thus missed out on valuable bonding, but that would be to overlook the simple truth that - for all the meaningless conversations about the weather or the football scores I have shared with customers at work - I'm still just really shy.
This week it has dawned on me that the ship has sailed. I can now only dream of the periphery. A couple of days ago, I took my younger daughter as a psychological prop, which gave me the courage to stand within earshot of them. Oh, how I yearned to chip in with my own thoughts on the pros and cons of the home-delivery of groceries! But I couldn't do it. Why would they care about my Asda Online anecdotes? They probably don't even remember that day when I made them chuckle politely at the park! Maybe things will change one day, but I can't help feeling that this was my last chance, and I blew it.
One of them's not even bald!
*Before you infer an accidental insult of my wife, here, let me be clear that she is fortunate enough to possess a beauty that requires no effort.
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