Yesterday I made a classic slummy mummy error.

After over a fortnight of being at home with children I was looking forward to having six hours a day again to call my own, and as we drove up to school I was planning in my head all the things I was going to do during the day in my lovely, peaceful, empty house. I found somewhere to park easily. Too easily. Where were all the cars?

I spotted another mum, kids in tow, and was briefly reassured, until I noticed that she too was looking around nervously. We both eyed the locked gates suspiciously.

In service training day. Crap.

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How old does a child have to be before they can walk to school on their own? It’s questions like these that I ask myself, and wish I had a partner to ask. I might not agree with him, but at least it would be someone to share the responsibility with. As it is, I decide by myself, and if I get it wrong? Well, it’s down to me.

This morning Belle and I walked to school in complete silence. Not because we were too busy appreciating the beauty of the morning, nor was she sulking at having only sandwiches and fruit in her lunch box – we were silent because Belle was four metres ahead of me at all times.

She had decided she wanted to practice walking to school on her own, so I was to stay well behind and keep quiet, so she would know what it was like. So the whole way there I kept my distance, watching her quietly, my baby, all grown up, looking both ways carefully before she crossed the (very quiet) roads.

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