Off to School We Go...

Once again, I took the 'northern summer' off from blogging, since as most of you know, we took a trip back to Boston for a visit. I could blog again about travelling with children and the hilarity that ensues: boarding through Biz Class and Ted says, 'This is MY seat, riiiight heeeere...', accidentally bringing a toy gun through security, the expectation that they will be on their best behaviour while poor diet and lack of sleep creates the opposite effect. (Actually meant to be my August topic, but never mind.) However, I picked a subject a little closer to home. Enjoy...

September: I heard the collective sigh of relief all the way down here in the southern hemisphere and I recognised it instantly: the ‘Ahhhhhh…’ of mums across America as everyone returned to school after Labor Day – accompanied by utterances under the breath of ‘Don’t let the door hit you on the bum’, ‘Thank God for school buses’, ‘First chance I’ve had to [finish a whole cup of hot coffee/vacuum/make an uninterrupted phone call] since June.’ The heck with Christmas. September is the most wonderful time of year.

Although the new school year here for us is still months away (February), we had our own brush with the Spirit of Back to School recently: Ted had his highly anticipated big school interview. He was nervously excited, hair gelled, handsome clothes donned. As Ted is the middle child, this was our second time through the process, so we knew what to expect. But how do you prepare a five year old? Or more to the point, should you? Isn’t the big school interview meant to be a ‘take me as I am’ snapshot of the child, a meet and greet, an ‘I’m-not-that-scary-of-a-principal’ themed intro, before school begins to leave its own indelible impression?

Apparently not. In this case, it’s an assessment and that’s that. The first of thousands over a lifetime of schooling.

Now I’ve heard my fair share of big school interview horror stories: my niece fell asleep during hers. (Clearly, she was so advanced, she was completely bored by what was being asked of her). Or my personal favourite: my friend’s son farted during his – but not discreetly with a sheepish nod of his head. Oh, no. (Five year old boys rarely throw aside that God-given opportunity for bodily humour.) He stood up on a chair to do so, as if to put a big exclamation mark on the event, insisting no one in the room could ignore it.

While Ted's wasn't exactly a horror story, it wasn't exactly a shining moment: if it’s possible for one to fail a big school interview, then he did just that. While at first he was engaged, he quickly wanted to steer the topics of conversation to things of his interest (cowboys, Hitler) and wasn’t really all that obliging. He vacillated between boredom (sighing) and disinterest ("You talkin’ to me?") peppered with moments of nervous chatter. A couple of things he was asked to do he just replied, ‘Nah.’ Overall, he didn’t give the impression that he was really all that fussed with this big school business.

At the end of the interview, I was told by the principal: ‘He’s the only child I’ve interviewed who can’t yet write his name.’ ‘Yes, that’s why I’m sending him to you,’ is what I thought. He commented on the way Ted held his pen. ‘Is it bad?’ I asked. ‘YES!’ he said and encouraged me to get some triangle-shaped pencils for easier gripping. (Obviously, the very ones Einstein himself used.) He also said that he had some ‘real concerns’ about his readiness, especially given his age. Sheesh.

Lucky I already know the guy, or I probably would’ve been tempted to tear strips off of him. Or cry. Or at the very least, become indignant. And if Ted were my first child, I probably would’ve been gutted. Or have felt like I failed as an at-home mum for not pushing the whole Baby Einstein agenda (which I so detest), attempting to teach a woodwind instrument or becoming bi-lingual myself in the hopes of making my child ‘smarter’.

His basic concern was that he didn’t want to see Ted struggle when he got to school, and I can fully appreciate the warning. But struggle? Who struggled in kindergarten when we were kids? Who got the report sent home saying, ‘Jill just can’t seem to grasp higher spatial concepts and has regrettably failed blocks’? When did kindergarten become work? What was once an extension of preschool with some learning laced in has become learning with all too little time for play. The result? After making the expectations so high so early, we then go on to complain that they grhave become ‘tweens’ at age 10 and their childhoods are more or less finished.

As far as I’m concerned the interview was merely a formality – he’s going next year. Legally, he has to start school or I must submit a homeschool curriculum, and to me, homeschooling should’ve died with Jane Eyre’s governess job. Ready or not, here I come. I can’t hold him back any longer, nor would I want to. Who wants the five-foot tall kid in kindergarten?

According to the New South Wales government standard, he was eligible for school this year – but I delayed sending him. Not because of what I wanted to do, but because it has become the ‘done’ thing, especially with boys. (The upside to the current way of doing things is that there seems to be fewer children who have to repeat a year of school, and that is a good thing.) While the pressure is on not sending them until they’re really ready, that leaves too much of the decision in the parents’ hands.

The whole issue of ‘school readiness’ is another way we have complicated our roles as parents, all in the name of choice. We research how to get pregnant, then what to eat, obstetricians, birthing plans, prams, preschools, discipline strategies, and now, our child’s school readiness. It used to be when you were five by a certain date, you went. Period. Yes, there were variations in age and ability, but that is not something that ever changes in the course of a child’s life, educational or otherwise: there will always be those who are smarter, faster, funnier. While the government’s curriculum has changed radically over the years, the school starting age hasn’t, which creates a dilemma: some will gladly push them out the door to school at 4.5 years because it’s cheap day care; others will hold them back till they’re 6 in the hopes of giving their child every ‘advantage’.

Am I worried for Ted’s sake? Not in the least. School is still four months away. I do think keeping him at home has kept him younger, similar to the way going to uni keeps you a teenager for another four years. Although in the remaining time before school starts, I will certainly try to encourage him, I simply refuse to create a battleground for us before he has even begun his formal education. Right now, Ted writing his name has no value in his world, which at the moment revolves mostly around cowboys, Lego and army men. But all that will change once he starts school – of that I am convinced. And that used to be the acceptable way it was for the vast majority of children starting school a generation ago.

Perhaps I will have better luck teaching him to write ‘Cowboy Ted’ instead of his name…

Home Schoolers, I Salute You!

I've often suspected that people who home-school their children are just a few cupcakes short of the bakesale bunch, but these summer holidays have for certain confirmed that.


Since my children do not listen to me about the important things – ‘Put that pole down before you impale yourself!’ – I can’t imagine that they would suddenly decide to sit up and take notice if, say, I was trying to teach them that reading really is a necessary life skill, as is subtraction. There’s about 237 other reasons why I wouldn’t home school, but the most important is that they need a break: from home, from their toys, from each other, from my dog-and-pony show.

We are all (not just me) counting the days until school resumes for the year. Despite a trampoline (‘It’s too hot!’) and a plethora of other new Christmas toys (see aforementioned post re: Lego), the inevitable enemy of every mum has set in: boredom. My six-year-old starting asking two weeks ago ‘How many more sleeps till school starts [sigh]?!’

Not to mention, my house is a total mess: my Christmas tree is still up (I’m staring February in the face) there’s drips of Popsicle on the floors, crumbs in the couches, dead gnats on the window sills. I never get around to cleaning. Why, why, why? I don’t entirely understand it myself.

But here is a typical day: ‘Today, I’m going to get caught up on the laundry.’ A modest achievement. I’m not getting up saying ‘I’m going to solve that cholera crisis in Haiti.’ For God’s sake, I know I’m not Bono. New Year’s Resolution Number 28: Set Realistic Expectations. Back to the looming laundry crisis.

To the laundry room, start sorting. Phone rings. A mum from school. ‘When are ballet lessons starting again?’ Blah, blah, blah. Must sign up for ballet today. Watch powerlessly as bag of popcorn is forced opened and flies in all directions. Blah, blah. Hang up phone. Clean up popcorn. 20 minutes later, back to sorting. Put wet load from washer onto floor so can re-load. Where is the only empty laundry basket in house? Ah, yes, my room. (Mind you, have a whole room for laundry and associated baskets, but where is laundry basket?) Better make the bed while I’m here. Scream from afar. Break up barroom-brawl-style fisticuffs – the kind with lots of rolling about on the floor. Boring corner time. Spend next 15 minutes re-building Lego creation obliterated by three-year old Godzilla during fight. What was I supposed to be doing? Laundry basket, head to bedroom again. Step on ‘Alabama’ from 50 States puzzle, then follow trail of 50 states back to my bedroom and pick up remaining puzzle pieces and put away. While here, better just load and start dishwasher. See phone on the counter. Must ring to sign up for ballet and make doctor’s appointment for Liam’s ears, better do it now before I forget. Go to office to get phonebook. How did these coloured pencils get all over the floor? Clean up myself, because I want it done quickly without cajoling others, which will end in yelling (mine). Now I need a cup of coffee…

And so on it goes. And it’s only 9:30 a.m. Come 5 pm and the bed still isn’t made, the dishwasher never got started, the empty laundry basket is still M.I.A. (had been turned into a roof of a fort out in the back yard), I didn’t get to make the phone calls and I haven’t pegged out the damp laundry that is still sitting on the floor, now smelling musty and needing a re-wash. But everyone is still alive and healthy. Clearly, aiming low is the only way to ensure job satisfaction.

So what did we do, to fill up all those hot summer days? Tut, tut, let’s not be too hard on ourselves, let’s look at the positive and see what we did accomplish. So here it is: a compilation of the good, the bad and the ugly of the ‘What We Did On Our Summer Vacation’ list, in no particular order:

* Endured 53 tantrums
* Went on first sleepover, water tube ride, and quad bike - solo
* Broke up 128 fights
* Learned to swim underwater
* Watched 91 previously viewed movies, none in a movie theatre
* Took training wheels off bike, with great success
* Snapped heads off of 15 army men
* Discovered the magic of a Slip-and-Slide with soap
* Picked up 647 Beados from the floor
* Learned to play checkers
* Answered 1, 394 questions (including ‘Can hornets make honey?’ ‘How does what we drink turn into wee?’ ‘Why do dudes wear earrings and necklaces?’ ‘Why does Julia Gillard wear skirts if she has cankles?’)
* Lost one brand-new, never worn pair of Woody flip-flops (must’ve made a run for it with the odd sock brigade)
* Did 149 loads of laundry

I am supremely thankful that summer break here is only six weeks, one of which is consumed with Christmas. The two-and-a-half month summer break I grew up with that I loved as a teacher I would loathe as a mother. Summer camp wouldn’t be a matter of choice, it would be a necessity in order to avoid having those clipboard-toting-child-advocate people involved or jail time. Or both. Either way, messy.

For all of us, the end is, indeed, in sight: February 1st sees the start of the new school year. Let me just say, home schoolers, I salute you! I’ll make sure I think of you when my real vacation begins, sipping my first child-free coffee since last year…