Diary of a Primary School Mum: 'Claire's sleep is now haunted by nightmares and dripping sweat'

The bubble has burst. Day two at "big" school and the resounding success of day one has not been repeated. 'Could you hold on for a couple of minutes?' mouthed teacher Miss Perry once my twins had been safely handed over. Memories of detentions, reprimands and a 10 per cent score for a physics exam flooded back in a whoosh of nerves. Miss Perry circled her index finger in a loose curl and I approached with trepidation.

"Oliver's been completely fine," (Miss Perry pulled a sympathetic face,) "but there have been quite a few tears from Claire. It's all perfectly normal though, and I'm sure she'll settle soon."

Settle soon? Claire's sleep is now haunted by nightmares from which she wakes with enough sweat dripping off her to fill the swimming pool for which the PTA will shortly start fundraising. In the morning she rises while it's still black outside and sits at the top of the stairs letting out intermittent moans. This whole "big" school thingy has made her about as relaxed as a lobster dangling over a pot of boiling water.

My best friend is a primary-school teacher. I regret not having shown any real interest in her job until just over a year ago. She regrets that her work is now what I like to discuss with her the most. I know she hates shop-talk after hours, but I'm desperate. To soften the blow I buy the most expensive bottle of Merlot that the off-licence stocks and pay her a visit.

Concerned that I've chosen the right primary, I'm always wanting my best friend to vindicate my selection by admitting that it must be good because it tops the league tables, but she's always on the defensive because league tables (in her opinion) are the curse of the education system and do not fairly represent how a school is actually performing. Now though, the whole league-table issue has been turned on its head.

"It's because the school's so good that Claire doesn't like it," I suggest. "The pressure to perform and get results means the children aren't allowed to have enough fun. Do you think that I have chosen the wrong school?"

It's the fifth time I've asked this question. My best friend sputters on her wine. "Your rationale's absurd," she says. "It's a nurturing, caring attitude which helps the kids perform."

"So I haven't chosen the wrong school?"

I think my friend loves me because of, and not despite, my tendency to worry.

"I'm sure you haven't," she reassures sweetly. "This is all perfectly Normal" – she sounds like Miss Perry – "and I'm sure Claire will settle soon. Some children take longer than others."

The following morning, while Oliver is bouncing at the front door, lunch bag jauntily slung across his tiny frame, Claire resignedly takes my hand and drags her feet all the way to school. She refused breakfast and, despite the roaring cars, I can hear her empty stomach growl.

She lets me put her water bottle and bag in their allotted trays, and its no consolation that she's a twin because her brother has already disappeared.

We kiss goodbye and she mooches off, head bowed. No tears, but no spark, and my heart aches.

"Well?" I ask at pick-up time. "How was your day?"

"It was a little bit better, Mummy".

She holds her thumb and middle finger microscopically apart, to indicate just how "little" she means.