She's going to school for the first time this week. It's a big moment in any child's life. She should be excited or terrified or awed. As her loving parent, I should be happy or weepy or anxious at the impending separation.
No such feelings are detectable in her or me. We are laid back, to the point that we keep forgetting when she is actually meant to start. Why? It's simple: she's mature enough to cope with school, and she has a choice about being there.
One parenting messageboard I frequent has numerous heartrending posts this week from anxious parents reassuring one another that their tiny four year olds will love school and be fine. It's natural but irrational, they say, for parents to feel sad and worried when their children start school. Next week, I know, there will be stories of bedwetting and tummyaches, disruptive behaviour at home and crying at the school gates. Again they will reassure each other: this is a natural stage; children need time to adjust; they'll soon be fine. The mantra "You're the parent. You know best. Trust your instincts" falls silent when the child reaches school age. The parent's feeling, formerly said to be instinct, is suddenly classed as irrational fear or the selfish desire to hold children smotheringly close. On the first day of school, parents will hide their tears because "I know he needs school."
The contrast with us is telling. Nine, not four. Likely to eat lunch in spite of distractions and unfavourite foods, in the knowledge that skipping it would make her crabby all afternoon. Able to find the toilets with ease, wipe her bottom thoroughly, do up her buttons most competently and wash her hands afterward. Confident enough to ask the teacher to explain the maths worksheet, and refuse to join in with meanness in the playground. Already in possession of a basic education which ensures she'll not be miles behind everyone else.
So what's left for a mum to worry about? That she won't like it? If she doesn't like it, she can come out of school once more. She's been happy and learning well at home. Problem solved.
Relaxed? I'm almost catatonic. Wake me up in time for school. Thursday, I think it is.
Monday 31 August 2009
Saturday 22 August 2009
Learning in the holidays
Tonight The Kid was learning to make graphs of equations. Her interest had been caught by a graph she saw on a TV programme last week. She mentioned that on her trial day the teacher had been assessing her maths. She thought it silly to have been assessed nearly two months before she started school. "If the teacher sees that I can do something, then yes, that's useful for her to know," she said. "But if she sees that I CAN'T do something, that tells her absolutely NOTHING. Why bother? That's a total waste of time. They should test me in the autumn." I didn't quite follow.
"Two months," she said. "Anything can happen in two months. Since that day I went to school, I've finished learning the times tables. I understand about areas. I can make graphs of equations. I can add decimals - I used to only understand the ones that looked like money. I still don't understand infinity but at least I know I was wrong before - it isn't just a really big thing. I know how to multiply with negative numbers. I can calculate lots of things much better in my head." Now I could see where this was leading. We'd done more maths in the last two months than in the previous two years. Learning is often like that.
"So," she said, "What if the teacher had tested me on all that stuff in July? I wouldn't have known it. That doesn't mean I won't know it in September."
I tried to explain that when you go to school, people think you do all your learning there. It would make sense for a teacher to think that a child wouldn't learn in the holidays. And it is sort of true: if children are made to do maths when they don't want to, sometimes it puts them off. It can put them off so much that even when they have a bit of time and freedom in the school holidays, they still think maths is boring. Most schoolchildren don't choose to do maths in the holidays.
She looked down at her graph, y = x2. She'd been very excited a minute earlier when she noticed the symmetry and had a feeling for why it must be symmetrical. "That won't happen to me, will it?" she asked in a small voice.
"Two months," she said. "Anything can happen in two months. Since that day I went to school, I've finished learning the times tables. I understand about areas. I can make graphs of equations. I can add decimals - I used to only understand the ones that looked like money. I still don't understand infinity but at least I know I was wrong before - it isn't just a really big thing. I know how to multiply with negative numbers. I can calculate lots of things much better in my head." Now I could see where this was leading. We'd done more maths in the last two months than in the previous two years. Learning is often like that.
"So," she said, "What if the teacher had tested me on all that stuff in July? I wouldn't have known it. That doesn't mean I won't know it in September."
I tried to explain that when you go to school, people think you do all your learning there. It would make sense for a teacher to think that a child wouldn't learn in the holidays. And it is sort of true: if children are made to do maths when they don't want to, sometimes it puts them off. It can put them off so much that even when they have a bit of time and freedom in the school holidays, they still think maths is boring. Most schoolchildren don't choose to do maths in the holidays.
She looked down at her graph, y = x2. She'd been very excited a minute earlier when she noticed the symmetry and had a feeling for why it must be symmetrical. "That won't happen to me, will it?" she asked in a small voice.
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