Walking up to the nursery door, I smiled as my daughter Minna bounded towards me.
‘Did you have fun today?’ I asked. ‘Yes Mummy,’ she replied, before running off towards the car.
I sprinted after her, not making eye contact with any other parents, and managed to just about snag her back from running into traffic.
Then, as I bundled her into the car, I asked: ‘Who did you play with?’ and her answer nearly broke me.
‘No-one,’ she said, happily.
I smiled but inside I died a little at the thought of my sweet girl playing alone in a corner of the playground, shunned by her peers. Or even worse, asking to play with people and being rejected.
While I wasn’t expecting her to be the nursery Queen Bee – and surely three is a little young for the cliques to form – the last thing I wanted was for her to be left out in the cold. That was a feeling I knew all too well.
In my school days, all I’d ever wanted to do was join in and be included. But I still remember that gut-punch feeling of sometimes being excluded and the bewilderment which comes with it.
It made me question what I had done wrong and why I wasn’t good enough.
Now as a parent, I’d do almost anything to stop my daughter going through that, to stop her feeling rejected.
Rationally, I know I can’t protect my daughter from everything – figuring out who are true friends is a rite of passage – I just didn’t think I’d have to start worrying so soon.
But when a mum waiting in front of me at nursery pick up asked: ‘Are you going to Chloe’s* party this weekend?’ I was immediately filled with angst.
We weren’t going to Chloe’s party at the weekend because my three-year-old hadn’t scored an invite. And when she said she hadn’t played with anyone that same day, my mind began to race.
‘What if she has no friends?’ I hissed to my husband later that evening as we watched our daughter forcibly examining her little brother with a doctor’s kit.
I knew that outside of nursery we had a steady stream of playdates lined up and very good friends who we often spent time with. I also knew that Minna didn’t struggle socially, and that like all pre-schoolers, she was still learning how to be a fully functioning member of society.
But logic didn’t matter at this moment. I couldn’t ignore the visions I had in my head of my beautiful, kind daughter as a social pariah.
I’ve read hundreds of stories where women refer to their closest friends, saying ‘we’ve known each other since nursery school’. What if Minna never had that?
Even looking at primary schools was turning into a social nightmare.
Did I want her to go to a school with big infant classes, 120 in the year, or one which only had classes of 15, and 105 in the whole school? What if she never made any friends? Did she need more or less choice?
I still don’t have the answers to that.
Most of all, I worried: Was it a reflection on me? I had great nursery mum friends, but had I failed to make it into the ‘cool mum’ group at nursery and was Minna suffering as a result?
Interrupting my thoughts my husband said: ‘I’m sure she has friends, stop panicking.’
Despite my spiral, I could see that Minna didn’t seem bothered by anything – she was as happy as she normally was.
Still, I couldn’t simply put it to the back of my mind. I had to find out.
In lieu of staking out the nursery and spying on her at play times to see if she was really all alone (and risking getting arrested for lurking suspiciously round a pre-school in the process), I opted to ask the nursery staff.
‘Does Minna have any friends?’ I asked one staff member, somewhat pathetically the next day.
They looked surprised.
‘She doesn’t have one best friend but she plays with lots of people,’ she replied.
And when I picked Minna up from the nursery the following day and again asked: ‘Who did you play with today?’, to my delight, she reeled off a list of names.
I now know that I couldn’t force friendships for Minna even if I wanted to. She’s happy in her own skin, and that’s all I really want. I just have to let things flow organically, without getting involved.
Recently, when I ask her who her friends are, she will tell me a variety of options. Sometimes it’s ‘Mummy and Daddy’, other times it’s ‘my brother’ and often she’ll list nursery classmates, some of whom I’ve heard of and others that I haven’t.
And actually, I’m quite glad we’re not invited to every nursery birthday party – if we were, we’d never have time to do anything else and all the carefully thought-out presents would bankrupt me. I also understand there are many reasons for parents to host smaller parties, without inviting the whole class.
Minna is only three, and her life is anything but a popularity contest.
She has plenty of friends, as much as a pre-schooler can do, and I’m immensely privileged that the friendship process is uncomplicated for her.
All I need to do now is equip her with the confidence to love herself and the rest will hopefully follow.
*Chloe’s name has been changed
Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk.
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