School knows best. I should probably just accept this and move on. Yet still, on Wednesday night, I found myself repeatedly checking the school’s website and Twitter feed in anticipation of the news that school would be closed the following day. Given that we’d had snow that day, that more was forecast, that an amber weather warning was in place, that most of the UK was already buried under several inches, that the local police were advising to cancel journeys, it seemed that surely a snow day was the right way to go.
School would absolutely, resolutely be open on Thursday morning.
At this point, my anxiety was getting worse. We live 11 miles from school and are not on the bus route so I drive the kids to school every morning and also collect them most days. Most of that drive is on exposed, rural roads where there’s nowhere to go for help if you get stuck – there isn’t even a petrol garage on the way. Roads that feel the full effect of the bad weather, roads that could well be icy and treacherous.
Thursday morning, and it was still snowing – by now the snow was beginning to stick. Okay, not snow as someone in Canada or Finland would recognise, but this is the UK. We don’t normally get much snow, so we’re not prepared for it – there isn’t enough snow to make it economically viable for local councils, transport services or even households to invest in specialist snow gear. Even the YakTrax I bought a few years ago felt like a ridiculous indulgence. So while I was looking out of the bedroom window at the snow, I was aware that while I could probably drive the kids into school okay, there were 2 major problems with that. 1) There was no guarantee I could drive them home again later in the day if the weather got worse, and 2) I don’t have much experience driving in the snow and so the thought of having to do so was making me incredibly anxious. In fact, if I did drive them in, I’d either spend the day in a cafe close to school, anxiously watching the weather, fully prepared to make a snap decision to pull them out and bring them home again if it got worse, or I’d be stood at home doing the same thing, watching the snow pile up and feeling more and more nervous about the return journey.
I kept checking the school website, but remember: school knows best. School was staying open, informed by government pressure over targets and the insane notion that every pupil should have 100% attendance. School was very much staying open.
By this point, my heart was racing, my stomach twisting in knots. Both kids have been ill and missed a few days of school, my car broke down after a weekend visiting family resulting in missing another two days. Ivy is falling apart and basically refusing school at the moment. We are on the Attendance Officer’s radar, to put it mildly. I feel under mounting pressure to make sure that both children are in school, on time, all the time. This has meant no mental health days, even when they were much needed, and sending them in before they’ve fully recovered from coughs and colds, meaning illnesses dragged out for longer. School, in other words, is adversely affecting my children’s physical and mental wellbeing.
I looked out again at the snow as the wind blew flurries around the garden, and realised how stressful the drive was going to be. Even the street where the car is parked wouldn’t be gritted – I could be slipping and sliding just while trying to do a three point turn to get out onto the main road, followed by 11 miles of fretting about black ice and maniac drivers while snow blew across my windscreen and I struggled to see.
School, I firmly believed, wasn’t making the right decision. It wasn’t a decision made according to the safety and wellbeing of their pupils, staff or the parents. And I wasn’t prepared to put myself through the stress and potential danger of the drive, nor of spending a day anxiously watching the weather in case it got worse. I called in and said we weren’t coming – from the sound of the harassed tones of the receptionist, we weren’t in the minority, but again, I was on the verge of palpitations with anxiety while making the call, worried that this decision would land me in even more trouble with school.
This though, is what self care looks like. Not bubble baths or an early night with a nice book to read; activities which may well be enjoyable but aren’t the sum total of what self care constitutes. Self care is the decision to put your own wellbeing foremost, rather than squeezing it in around the edges of your life. It often looks like being difficult, or awkward, of going against the grain. Mostly, it’s about listening to that quiet, scared voice inside, the one that is begging you not to do that, to please do this instead – a voice that we so often have to override out of a greater fear of what will happen if we give in to it. Fear that we’ll be in trouble – with a boss, with school, with our ex, or our mother. Fear, all the time, fear. I’m getting so fed up of living my life in constant fear, yet this time, the fear of driving through a blizzard (actual weather forecast) outweighed the fear of what school might say if we didn’t come in. Self care meant allowing myself to avoid a scenario that I’d find terrifying. Similarly, a few weeks ago, self care meant taking the extra time to drive through the town to the garage after dropping the kids off, as my petrol gauge had dropped down to one bar – and while intellectually I knew that there was enough petrol to get me back home and to the far more convenient garage, I also knew that I’d be worrying about it for the whole 11 miles. Inconvenience beats anxiety and stress in the self care equation.
At 9.40 am, less than an hour after the start of the day, school sent out a text to parents to announce that it would be closing at 11.30, and so everyone would need to make special arrangements to collect their children early. By this point, it was clear we were within a few miles of the Red Zone that the newscasters were warning us about, and snow was coming down hard. School made it very clear that this decision had been taken by the bus companies rather than in-house, as the bus firms were worried that they would not be able to operate and get the pupils home safely that afternoon. Seriously? If school had paid attention to the weather warnings, to the police, to plain old common sense, then they would have announced the decision to close the night before, and saved everyone the added stress, worry and potentially dangerous journeys.
School, in other words, doesn’t always know best. Doesn’t that ring true for so much of the daily stresses that we have to deal with? When what we seemingly have to do is in direct conflict with what we really need to do, but we’re forced to go along with it all anyway? And for someone who is essentially in a state of recovery after a traumatic situation, it’s crucial to take the actions that will make you feel safe, the actions that will reduce that overload of stress and anxiety. There are times when it’s right to expand your comfort zone, and there are time when feeling safe is paramount. Self care is essentially about pegging out the boundaries that you need in place to feel safe, to protect your wellbeing. The soft and fluffy end of the self-care stick – bubble baths and the like – are enjoyable reminders to be good to ourselves and to boost our sense of wellbeing. They’re not much use if we’re sabotaging such core feelings such as safety by pushing ourselves too hard in stressful situations, against our own intuition. A hot bath will not outweigh the stress of driving 11 miles through a blizzard.
Listen to your intuition. Stop fighting yourself when it comes to the basic human right of feeling safe. Self care isn’t a luxury, nor is it always fluffy. If you need a snow day, take a goddamn snow day.