Who's who? The secret life of the school gate drop-off and pick-up

Welcome back, comrades 

School gate life

Almost a decade ago, I crouched next to the school gate, full face of make-up, wearing the new outfit I’d laid out the night before (yes, even earrings). I smoothed my small daughter’s golden hair and told her she’d be amazing.

This was the first time I’d experienced #SchoolGateLife. Now, as that same little face scowls at me as she harumphs her way into secondary school, I hastily hide behind bushes as I drop my last remaining primary school child off at those same large black iron gates. I dodge, barely dressed, past the shiny new Junior Infant parents with their ironed jeans, blowdries and well-considered, post-8am jewellery.

You will find every type of species gathered at this one spot, mornings between 7.45am and 8.30am and afternoons from 1pm onwards. Here’s a deep dive from someone who’s been there, done that, worn the t-shirt backwards (and inside out).

Man-at-the-gate-always-with-a-dog 

The pooch is usually small and fluffy, and the man is usually staring intently at his phone. The truth is that he’s just mindlessly scrolling on Sky Sports or Facebook, and is praying nobody comes and talks to him while he’s waiting for little Sophie or Isabel or Ella to emerge and end his version of fresh hell. In the mornings, he wears his daughter's backpack on his own back. Most likely to: Chin the air in terse greeting if he accidentally catches your eye.

The centre-of-the-school-universe parent 

There is one specific type I’m honing in on here. This is the mother or father that could tell you the school’s fax number backwards. They can recite the entire after-school activity schedule in 30 seconds, and have an uncanny ability to attract similar bloodhound-like peers who, heads bent, whisper in low tones about what’s really going in in Saint Something’s National. These are the real cogs that turn the PTA’s wheels. Most likely to say: *Tilted head* ‘Oh, did you not know about that…[insert cake sale, maths test, school trip, jersey day, ping-pong fundraiser, as appropriate].

The we-barely-made-it-gang 

You’ll find us running up the avenue, pretending we are ok with always being eight to twelve minutes late for the morning bell. We are the ones with kids still licking jam and toast crumbs off their cheeks. There’s at least one shoelace undone, a lunch probably still on the kitchen countertop. We get it all over the line – every last Aladdin message answered, every Club Zap responded to, every blasted gumshield, moulded in haste ahead of a match that's about to begin, but none of it comes easy. “Bite down, I know it’s hot, but bite, quick!” The children may not have their copies covered and there might be beans and waffles on occasion, but this is the parent that has taken on 200 zillion things, and finds it hard to say no. Most likely to say: ‘Yes, I’ll drop them home after the playdate", while sadly eyeing the unopened Friday night wine. Later, my pretty.

Corporate parent 

They walk briskly along, formal shoes clacking, hair neatly combed. Since covid, there’s been a relaxation of sorts – a top button open, perhaps. More of a willingness to stop for a coffee in the local convenience store on the way back to office-land. These are the yours-sincerely-on-WhatsApp people of the world, but let's face it, you'd take them any day over the harried I'm-so-much-busier-than-everyone-else-so-I-need-everyone-to-constantly-remind-me-about-when-PE-day-is messages on the dreaded class WhatsApp. But that's another article for another day.

Corporate parents love a good committee meeting and are most likely to say: ‘Thank you for the party’ on WhatsApp. (You know the text that starts the avalanche of 29 other pointless notifications that digitally-peer-pressures you into sending your own party-blowing, party-hatted emoji.)

World’s friendliest grandparent 

Unlike man-with-a-white-fluffy-dog, these lovelies are practically falling over themselves to catch your eye. And the minute they do, it’s straight into intensity town. Yes, you are Sarah’s mum, no Ms White isn’t too strict. Yes, the library time is far too short. Yes, you can really be allergic to peanuts. They’ve all the time in the world and inevitably you end up walking, nay sauntering, all the way down the avenue to the carpark in a cosy tangle of school bags, scooters and crying children. Added stress because know your brood only have 14 minutes to get to swimming the other side of town, plus they’ve to change in the car. You most likely forgot at least one pair of goggles. You also have an NCT test while one child is in the lesson, two deadlines and….deep breaths. 

Zen…grasp that Zen. 

Most likely to say: “Ah, let her have the treat. God love her. Look, I’ve more sugar in my handbag…” 

The come-on-come-on-come-on-introvert 

It’s a stealth operation. An attempt to time everything to limit all exposure to all things school-related. Giant sunglasses, check. Baseball cap, check. Long, can’t-keep-up-with-me strides. This parent means business. Lingering at the noticeboard will kill another five minutes of not having to speak to any of the above parents. Smile politely, grab kid, brisk exit. Done. You’ve heard of an Irish exit and a French exit, but have you ever seen the School Gate exit. Whoosh, you are barely there and you are gone. A ghost, a mysterious enigma. Most likely to say: ‘What school pickup?”

Hello me.