School was open today and weather forecasters are predicting a big thaw over the weekend. Now I’m starting to panic how I will cope next week without my “snow day”. Despite my objections to the principles, I’ve got used to our days off. It's become a treat to be protected by the muffler of snow from the normal requirements to chase and chivvy and frantically dash to school. The twilight, ethereal, glowing world of snow has become a sanctuary where we can enjoy being at home and catch up with ourselves.
Joking apart, my whole point in these last few postings has been to highlight the bigger issues behind the decision to close schools. With this in mind I thought this article in The Sunday Times was interesting. Jenni Russell discusses how the state has interfered in our lives to such an extent because Labour don’t trust us to make our own decisions. This goes to the core of my problem with schools closing – we can’t be trusted to decide whether it's safe for us to get to school and there are endless petty health and safety rules strangling every practical decision. “By putting the state in the middle of everything, we’re destroying society” says a mother whose 15 year old son was forbidden to do work experience with a stockbroker in London because the council’s health and safety officer had to check all premises beforehand and he was not allowed to travel that far.
I appreciate that all these rules are supposed to be for our benefit, but they are actually counter-productive because, rather than protecting people in a practical and pragmatic way, they simply annoy and frustrate, turning people away from what would be sensible behaviour. I’m not launching into politics on this blog but I would love to see a government who can allow society to be responsible and stop marring our lives with petty and nonsensical regulations.
Showing posts with label School. Show all posts
Showing posts with label School. Show all posts
Thursday, 14 January 2010
Sunday, 10 January 2010
Living with Snow
Okay, so it's quite hard work getting children in and out of coats, hats, gloves and boots, but I'm quite enjoying living with snow. It's beautiful; cold and crisp, huge crystals glittering in the sunshine. We are finally experiencing the stereotypical images of winter that are usually only seen in Christmas cards and history books.
Maybe it's because I got used to this way of life when we lived in Kyrgyzstan where there can be snow for months. Schools stay open (unless it gets to minus 20) and roads are certainly never gritted, so everyone just gets on with it. Dilapidated Ladas, held together mostly by string, keep on sliding over ever thickening ice. Kyrgyz girls refuse to give up their fashion - stilettos. Watching them it occurred to me that this is actually quite sensible footwear for these conditions because the heels act like crampons in the snow and ice.
This morning our brilliant Sunday School was open - on the school site. Lots of people turned up, keen to keep life as normal as possible. We discussed schools closing - there's already talk of school closing tomorrow, even though the snow hasn't yet fallen. Twenty-four hour media, we decided, is part of the problem. They keep a story live, updating every hour, squeezing every detail from it - if I see one more report from a gritting depot I will scream! This means we are always on alert about something that we might just calmly get on with if not constantly bombarded by media hype.
It's also occurred to me that one of the saddest things about this whole schools closing issue is the reflection of our society. Schools close because there is a presumption that if someone falls over and hurts themselves in the playground, they will sue. That says more about the attitude of society as a whole, the blame culture we have created, than the actual decision to close schools.
Maybe it's because I got used to this way of life when we lived in Kyrgyzstan where there can be snow for months. Schools stay open (unless it gets to minus 20) and roads are certainly never gritted, so everyone just gets on with it. Dilapidated Ladas, held together mostly by string, keep on sliding over ever thickening ice. Kyrgyz girls refuse to give up their fashion - stilettos. Watching them it occurred to me that this is actually quite sensible footwear for these conditions because the heels act like crampons in the snow and ice.
This morning our brilliant Sunday School was open - on the school site. Lots of people turned up, keen to keep life as normal as possible. We discussed schools closing - there's already talk of school closing tomorrow, even though the snow hasn't yet fallen. Twenty-four hour media, we decided, is part of the problem. They keep a story live, updating every hour, squeezing every detail from it - if I see one more report from a gritting depot I will scream! This means we are always on alert about something that we might just calmly get on with if not constantly bombarded by media hype.
It's also occurred to me that one of the saddest things about this whole schools closing issue is the reflection of our society. Schools close because there is a presumption that if someone falls over and hurts themselves in the playground, they will sue. That says more about the attitude of society as a whole, the blame culture we have created, than the actual decision to close schools.
Thursday, 7 January 2010
School is Opening!
Tonight I have been to book club - what joy it was to get out of the house and talk to adults! Inevitably, we discussed school closures. Someone made a point I wanted to share - that the fact schools close so easily is actually a sad indictment of society. It's because we've all become too litigious, too quick to cast blame and sue for any upset, that schools have become so anxious to limit risk.
On a positive note, T's school is open tomorrow! Starting later and requesting children take packed lunches. As my husband said, do they read this blog...?
On a positive note, T's school is open tomorrow! Starting later and requesting children take packed lunches. As my husband said, do they read this blog...?
Wednesday, 6 January 2010
Snow: Do we give up too easily?
During the snow in February 2009 I had a rant about how easily schools closed and how this sets a bad example to our children. “...What it says to them is that when things get tough we just give up...” I fear I must vent again!
This morning my 6 year old was crying because, at 7am, there had not been an announcement that his school was closed. There was snow so he assumed that school would close. This is the example he has been set so this is now what he expects. By 7.30 the inevitable announcement had been made.
I’ve just read on the website that the school will be closed again tomorrow and I am disappointed. This snow is not a surprise. We have had plenty of warning. Other people are managing to get around, with care. Why can’t teachers get to work? Why can’t a skeleton staff open up for those pupils who can get in? I know some will say there’s a health and safety risk, someone might fall in the playground etc – but these days there’s always a health and safety excuse if you want one.
Why did the school not spend today preparing, such as gritting the playground and surrounding pavements? Why can’t they show some initiative and be adaptable. For example, why not start later, to give people more time to get in? Why not ask pupils to bring packed lunch? To give up and close with so little effort sets a poor example of perseverance, something I discussed in more detail in my February 2009 post.
The media don’t help. The morning news was full of melodrama and drastic advice – “don’t take your journey unless it’s absolutely necessary...” Do they consider the responsibility of going to work absolutely necessary? With this being said on the news, it becomes too easy for everyone to absolve themselves from even trying.
Maybe I feel like this because I’ve lived in countries where people cope in snow much deeper than this for months at a time. Maybe I feel like this because my parents have always been self-employed so I’ve grown up with a strong work ethic and an understanding of what it means to be entirely responsible for your business, every day, whatever the circumstances. For us, today, work had to go on. We run day nurseries and all three were open – with full credit to our staff who made huge efforts to get in. We feel a duty to the parents to stay open so that they can go to work. Why can schools not show the same care? They close and this impacts on all the working parents.
I am very aware that many of these decisions are taken by the council rather that the schools. But it’s too easy for some distant civil servant to declare all schools closed without any thought about what this really means. I’m sure some of you will tell me that roads are treacherous and it’s irresponsible to be out. That may be so in some areas, but around here, things really aren’t that bad. Most of the pupils could walk to school - something that is endlessly discussed in assemblies when they are promoting the health and environmental benefits of walking to school!
I'm not entirely miserable, I can appreciate that it's wonderful to be able to spend the day pottering at home and playing in the snow, but I do believe there is a bigger issue and that the collective reaction to snow is unfortunate. Yes, there’s more effort involved when our world is covered in snow, but what is teaching all about? Why, as a society, do we not try and persevere through adversity any more?
Ps, in February 2009 I gave credit to our milkman, Dave, who didn’t miss a delivery. At 4am this morning, Dave was out in the snow leaving our milk by the gate. Well done Dave, and thank you!
This morning my 6 year old was crying because, at 7am, there had not been an announcement that his school was closed. There was snow so he assumed that school would close. This is the example he has been set so this is now what he expects. By 7.30 the inevitable announcement had been made.
I’ve just read on the website that the school will be closed again tomorrow and I am disappointed. This snow is not a surprise. We have had plenty of warning. Other people are managing to get around, with care. Why can’t teachers get to work? Why can’t a skeleton staff open up for those pupils who can get in? I know some will say there’s a health and safety risk, someone might fall in the playground etc – but these days there’s always a health and safety excuse if you want one.
Why did the school not spend today preparing, such as gritting the playground and surrounding pavements? Why can’t they show some initiative and be adaptable. For example, why not start later, to give people more time to get in? Why not ask pupils to bring packed lunch? To give up and close with so little effort sets a poor example of perseverance, something I discussed in more detail in my February 2009 post.
The media don’t help. The morning news was full of melodrama and drastic advice – “don’t take your journey unless it’s absolutely necessary...” Do they consider the responsibility of going to work absolutely necessary? With this being said on the news, it becomes too easy for everyone to absolve themselves from even trying.
Maybe I feel like this because I’ve lived in countries where people cope in snow much deeper than this for months at a time. Maybe I feel like this because my parents have always been self-employed so I’ve grown up with a strong work ethic and an understanding of what it means to be entirely responsible for your business, every day, whatever the circumstances. For us, today, work had to go on. We run day nurseries and all three were open – with full credit to our staff who made huge efforts to get in. We feel a duty to the parents to stay open so that they can go to work. Why can schools not show the same care? They close and this impacts on all the working parents.
I am very aware that many of these decisions are taken by the council rather that the schools. But it’s too easy for some distant civil servant to declare all schools closed without any thought about what this really means. I’m sure some of you will tell me that roads are treacherous and it’s irresponsible to be out. That may be so in some areas, but around here, things really aren’t that bad. Most of the pupils could walk to school - something that is endlessly discussed in assemblies when they are promoting the health and environmental benefits of walking to school!
I'm not entirely miserable, I can appreciate that it's wonderful to be able to spend the day pottering at home and playing in the snow, but I do believe there is a bigger issue and that the collective reaction to snow is unfortunate. Yes, there’s more effort involved when our world is covered in snow, but what is teaching all about? Why, as a society, do we not try and persevere through adversity any more?
Ps, in February 2009 I gave credit to our milkman, Dave, who didn’t miss a delivery. At 4am this morning, Dave was out in the snow leaving our milk by the gate. Well done Dave, and thank you!
Tuesday, 8 December 2009
Christmas Nativity
I love the one-off comments children come out with – funny but at the same time often sad and poignant, an insight into their perceptions, fears or passions. I have a book called Lots of Love, a collection of such phrases edited by Nanette Newman. “My mother ses she’s cold and then she makes me put on a coat”...”you couldn’t make everyone in the world love each other. They dont even get on in blocks of flats”...”babees need to be loved by their mother in case everybody hates them when they grow up”...”vikars dont larf much. I think its because Jesus didnt tell many jokes”.
At Sunday School we were discussing the Christmas Story. “And what did the angel do?” H, the leader asked. L, a three year old with beautiful blond hair put up her hand. “She sprinkled fairy dust everywhere” she answered seriously. It was a wonderful image, God’s messenger scattering glitter from the heavens. We then moved on to the annual Awkward Moment when we thought about why Joseph might not be pleased when his girlfriend Mary told him she was having a baby. A couple of the teenagers raised their hands. “Is your answer age appropriate?” H asked. The hands were put down again.
As the children trotted out the set answers they have learnt over the years ...Bethlehem...the inns were all full...in a stable...I couldn’t help wondering if by turning the Christmas story into a photogenic tableau we have belittled its meaning and power. If you think about it, riding a donkey when you are very pregnant and giving birth in a cold, smelly stable is not romantic at all. And yet we all coo over it every year, without thinking beyond the images we have manipulated and sanitised.
When a letter came home from school asking for a costume for my son I was reminded how we have corrupted the story of Jesus’ birth with our western interpretation. T is a narrator and required “plain pyjamas, a dressing gown and a stripy tea towel” – none of which we have. Refusing to buy a dressing gown I asked if I could make him a tunic. I was told this would have to be clarified by another teacher. For goodness sake, I thought, who wore dressing gowns in biblical times!
I looked in a child’s bible and found no dressing gowns but lots of men wearing stripy tunics. I also found a disturbing image which reminded me, as H and I discussed at Sunday School, that the most traumatic result of Jesus’ birth is often overlooked; hundreds of baby boys were murdered on King Herod's orders. The picture I saw is of a mother (in a tunic) kneeling over her baby and pleading with a soldier holding a bloody knife. What a terrible thing to have happened. Maybe that is why we never think of it; it’s easier to dress three boys up in crowns and watch them hand over golden caskets. But life was hard and violent in biblical times. And no-one wore towelling dressing gowns.
PS, You will be pleased to hear that my tunic was sanctioned by the teachers and T looked fantastic in it. The play was really very good: Tiny four-year-old angels angelically flapping their wings; wise men telling jokes (my son’s favourite part); great facial expressions from reluctant camels; raucous singing and excellent acting from Mary and Joseph. It even had some realism to satisfy cynical me – an acknowledgement that it was hard for Mary and Joseph to toil across the desert in the heat of the day and cold of the night; genuine concern about there being “no room at the inn”; a mention of the stable being smelly. I was also heartened to see, amongst the Ben 10 nightwear, other creative adaptations of the dressing gown theme.
Pps. Don’t dismiss me as a total killjoy; it does bother me that that I can’t just take these things at face value and sit back and enjoy 90 primary school children performing for half an hour a year. I do also appreciate that there is an element of teachers asking for costumes easily accessible to most parents. I’m just concerned that our children will grow up with a distorted assumption of what was worn in Bethlehem. Some simple context would help restore authenticity. Maybe in the melee of preparing for these plays we should make sure we find time to discuss what people actually wore, and why.
At Sunday School we were discussing the Christmas Story. “And what did the angel do?” H, the leader asked. L, a three year old with beautiful blond hair put up her hand. “She sprinkled fairy dust everywhere” she answered seriously. It was a wonderful image, God’s messenger scattering glitter from the heavens. We then moved on to the annual Awkward Moment when we thought about why Joseph might not be pleased when his girlfriend Mary told him she was having a baby. A couple of the teenagers raised their hands. “Is your answer age appropriate?” H asked. The hands were put down again.
As the children trotted out the set answers they have learnt over the years ...Bethlehem...the inns were all full...in a stable...I couldn’t help wondering if by turning the Christmas story into a photogenic tableau we have belittled its meaning and power. If you think about it, riding a donkey when you are very pregnant and giving birth in a cold, smelly stable is not romantic at all. And yet we all coo over it every year, without thinking beyond the images we have manipulated and sanitised.
When a letter came home from school asking for a costume for my son I was reminded how we have corrupted the story of Jesus’ birth with our western interpretation. T is a narrator and required “plain pyjamas, a dressing gown and a stripy tea towel” – none of which we have. Refusing to buy a dressing gown I asked if I could make him a tunic. I was told this would have to be clarified by another teacher. For goodness sake, I thought, who wore dressing gowns in biblical times!
I looked in a child’s bible and found no dressing gowns but lots of men wearing stripy tunics. I also found a disturbing image which reminded me, as H and I discussed at Sunday School, that the most traumatic result of Jesus’ birth is often overlooked; hundreds of baby boys were murdered on King Herod's orders. The picture I saw is of a mother (in a tunic) kneeling over her baby and pleading with a soldier holding a bloody knife. What a terrible thing to have happened. Maybe that is why we never think of it; it’s easier to dress three boys up in crowns and watch them hand over golden caskets. But life was hard and violent in biblical times. And no-one wore towelling dressing gowns.
PS, You will be pleased to hear that my tunic was sanctioned by the teachers and T looked fantastic in it. The play was really very good: Tiny four-year-old angels angelically flapping their wings; wise men telling jokes (my son’s favourite part); great facial expressions from reluctant camels; raucous singing and excellent acting from Mary and Joseph. It even had some realism to satisfy cynical me – an acknowledgement that it was hard for Mary and Joseph to toil across the desert in the heat of the day and cold of the night; genuine concern about there being “no room at the inn”; a mention of the stable being smelly. I was also heartened to see, amongst the Ben 10 nightwear, other creative adaptations of the dressing gown theme.
Pps. Don’t dismiss me as a total killjoy; it does bother me that that I can’t just take these things at face value and sit back and enjoy 90 primary school children performing for half an hour a year. I do also appreciate that there is an element of teachers asking for costumes easily accessible to most parents. I’m just concerned that our children will grow up with a distorted assumption of what was worn in Bethlehem. Some simple context would help restore authenticity. Maybe in the melee of preparing for these plays we should make sure we find time to discuss what people actually wore, and why.
Wednesday, 24 June 2009
Sports Day
Today was my son’s first school Sports Day, for me a morning of stomach-churning emotion. I hated Sports Day when I was at school. I was one of the chubby girls; embroiled every year in an unspoken battle with my friend Sarah to see which of us would come last. I can still remember the fear of standing at the start, loathing the tension of waiting for the starting gun. I dreaded the indignity of pushing my uncoordinated limbs down the track for the shame of losing in front of the whole school and their parents.
In the build up to Sports Day I have ensured my emotions were hidden from T. I’ve been relieved to see that he has been utterly excited about the whole event, talking animatedly about their practises. My only concern (other than the fear that there would be a mother’s race) was when he told me he won the practice running race and seemed completely confident that he would win on Sports Day. I tried to tell him that this might not happen and prepare him for disappointment but he was having none of it.
It was therefore with a churning stomach that I stood with the other mums and dads on the hot school field. As T arrived with his class I could see that he was finally nervous too; he was pulling funny faces and had his arms crossed awkwardly across his chest. More than ever I worried about his response to not winning.
Rows of children in white shirts and blue shorts took their places in turn at of the top of the track. All my childhood emotions came back as I watched them racing their hardest towards the finish line, many moving awkwardly and looking rather bewildered about what they should be doing. I wanted to cry as I saw the stragglers, caught up in their sacks or skipping ropes, still struggling on while the race was won and finished. Their discomfort was palpable.
T didn’t win his running race. He started well but spent too much effort looking round to see where everyone else was. I watched him wait to be given a number to show he’d come first, second, or third, approaching a teacher with expectation. When he didn’t have one I held my breath for his reaction. He looked at me and shrugged his shoulders as he returned to his place. He was still smiling. He did better in the egg and spoon race, concentrating entirely on keeping the egg on the spoon and walking steadily to a clear win. I was so excited for him and he was so proud.
Some of my demons were leaving me and I started to relax. It was a nicely organised event with groups of children doing obstacle races and different games round the field, the focus not just intensely on the track. Despite my personal dislike of Sports Day I do not believe it should be stopped or made non-competitive. Winning and losing, succeeding and failing are things we have to cope with throughout life and so today has been an important lesson for T. Sports Day at his school is all about winning points for your house and I like this collective element, that the children identify with working together and being responsible for the success of their team not just themselves.
I’m writing this in the quiet hour I get while Baby J is asleep and right now all I want is to see T and give him a big hug to say well done. Well done for winning the egg and spoon race, but also well done for coping so bravely with the disappointment of not winning the running race, which I know he was so desperate to do.
In the build up to Sports Day I have ensured my emotions were hidden from T. I’ve been relieved to see that he has been utterly excited about the whole event, talking animatedly about their practises. My only concern (other than the fear that there would be a mother’s race) was when he told me he won the practice running race and seemed completely confident that he would win on Sports Day. I tried to tell him that this might not happen and prepare him for disappointment but he was having none of it.
It was therefore with a churning stomach that I stood with the other mums and dads on the hot school field. As T arrived with his class I could see that he was finally nervous too; he was pulling funny faces and had his arms crossed awkwardly across his chest. More than ever I worried about his response to not winning.
Rows of children in white shirts and blue shorts took their places in turn at of the top of the track. All my childhood emotions came back as I watched them racing their hardest towards the finish line, many moving awkwardly and looking rather bewildered about what they should be doing. I wanted to cry as I saw the stragglers, caught up in their sacks or skipping ropes, still struggling on while the race was won and finished. Their discomfort was palpable.
T didn’t win his running race. He started well but spent too much effort looking round to see where everyone else was. I watched him wait to be given a number to show he’d come first, second, or third, approaching a teacher with expectation. When he didn’t have one I held my breath for his reaction. He looked at me and shrugged his shoulders as he returned to his place. He was still smiling. He did better in the egg and spoon race, concentrating entirely on keeping the egg on the spoon and walking steadily to a clear win. I was so excited for him and he was so proud.
Some of my demons were leaving me and I started to relax. It was a nicely organised event with groups of children doing obstacle races and different games round the field, the focus not just intensely on the track. Despite my personal dislike of Sports Day I do not believe it should be stopped or made non-competitive. Winning and losing, succeeding and failing are things we have to cope with throughout life and so today has been an important lesson for T. Sports Day at his school is all about winning points for your house and I like this collective element, that the children identify with working together and being responsible for the success of their team not just themselves.
I’m writing this in the quiet hour I get while Baby J is asleep and right now all I want is to see T and give him a big hug to say well done. Well done for winning the egg and spoon race, but also well done for coping so bravely with the disappointment of not winning the running race, which I know he was so desperate to do.
Wednesday, 10 June 2009
Report on the School Trip
T came out of school and collapsed theatrically at my feet because he was sooooo tired. Said the best part of the day was having lunch. Wasn't sick on the coach. Success!
Tuesday, 9 June 2009
First School Trip
My five year old is out on his first school trip. He is very excited. Last week he came home with a note and specific instructions: he had to have a lunchbox with a handle and no unhealthy food in it. Since then I have been duly making preparations as directed.
They are going to a farm. I think T is more excited about the logistics – the packed lunch and going on the coach. He’s been asking me to have packed lunches for ages but I have told him no – I can’t be bothered to think what to put together every morning and think that a school lunch will be much better for him. He was unmoved by my reasoning, but did listen when I said that I never had packed lunch at school. “Never?” he asked, amazed. He was triumphant when he realised he’d need a packed lunch for the trip. “You can’t say no on that day” he pointed out with irritating logic during our most recent discussion.
When your child starts school you begin a long process of letting go. The first school trip is another milestone I’ve realised. I’ve become used to dropping him off at school and knowing where he is all day. On trip day I will have no idea where he is.
He is very excited about the coach, something I don’t share. He will be leaving the sanctuary of the school premises and going out on the roads. I remember all too well news footage of those lumbering vehicles overturned on tight country bends, their passengers broken and bent inside. I appreciate that this is obsessive maternal worrying but I can’t help it sometimes - my worst fears always surface into my relaxing mind just as I’m dozing off at night.
On a practical note, T is car sick, a trait we first discovered winding into the mountains of Kyrgyzstan. I have taken precautions; a travel sick pill, a plastic bag in his pocket, a request to his teacher that he sits at the front. But I’ll also be hoping all day that he feels well and the excitement of his first trip is not marred by the discomfort and embarrassment of throwing up in front of his class.
I was glad to see many other mothers in the playground flapping as much as me: have you got waterproof trousers? Have you done sun cream? Do they need shoes as well as wellies? It was a new experience for all of us, used to being out with our children and deciding when they should eat, wee, change shoes or put on sun cream. The trip has introduced a new level of independence for mother and child. Next time we’ll all be much more relaxed; I watched with envy as one mother with older children casually put her son’s backpack in the line then wandered off to chat while the rest of us fussed.
T walked proudly up to school with his lunchbox, showing it off to friends we met. He was much more calm than I. In the car I’d started fretting about whether he might wet himself on the coach journey. I’d mentioned spare pants and he’d thought silently then said “I’m a big boy now”. He is. And I must learn to let go.
They are going to a farm. I think T is more excited about the logistics – the packed lunch and going on the coach. He’s been asking me to have packed lunches for ages but I have told him no – I can’t be bothered to think what to put together every morning and think that a school lunch will be much better for him. He was unmoved by my reasoning, but did listen when I said that I never had packed lunch at school. “Never?” he asked, amazed. He was triumphant when he realised he’d need a packed lunch for the trip. “You can’t say no on that day” he pointed out with irritating logic during our most recent discussion.
When your child starts school you begin a long process of letting go. The first school trip is another milestone I’ve realised. I’ve become used to dropping him off at school and knowing where he is all day. On trip day I will have no idea where he is.
He is very excited about the coach, something I don’t share. He will be leaving the sanctuary of the school premises and going out on the roads. I remember all too well news footage of those lumbering vehicles overturned on tight country bends, their passengers broken and bent inside. I appreciate that this is obsessive maternal worrying but I can’t help it sometimes - my worst fears always surface into my relaxing mind just as I’m dozing off at night.
On a practical note, T is car sick, a trait we first discovered winding into the mountains of Kyrgyzstan. I have taken precautions; a travel sick pill, a plastic bag in his pocket, a request to his teacher that he sits at the front. But I’ll also be hoping all day that he feels well and the excitement of his first trip is not marred by the discomfort and embarrassment of throwing up in front of his class.
I was glad to see many other mothers in the playground flapping as much as me: have you got waterproof trousers? Have you done sun cream? Do they need shoes as well as wellies? It was a new experience for all of us, used to being out with our children and deciding when they should eat, wee, change shoes or put on sun cream. The trip has introduced a new level of independence for mother and child. Next time we’ll all be much more relaxed; I watched with envy as one mother with older children casually put her son’s backpack in the line then wandered off to chat while the rest of us fussed.
T walked proudly up to school with his lunchbox, showing it off to friends we met. He was much more calm than I. In the car I’d started fretting about whether he might wet himself on the coach journey. I’d mentioned spare pants and he’d thought silently then said “I’m a big boy now”. He is. And I must learn to let go.
Monday, 9 March 2009
Friends for Tea - 2
So far Friends for Tea hasn’t been much success. One child was crying before we even got home, freaked out by our chaotic school run with Baby J arching her back and screaming in protest at being shoved from car seat to buggy and back again. Once home, however, they did all have a wonderful time playing.
The second time a friend came back my son had had a serious fall in the playground and after tea didn’t feel like playing and sat drooping on the sofa. Whilst it certainly wasn’t T’s fault I felt sorry for the guest who entertained himself with lego on the floor, waiting for his mum to arrive. I called my husband in anxious whispers, asking him to come home asap as I was worried T had concussion and how would I get four children to casualty in a hurry.
T went to a friend’s house today. It’s amazing how much time you seem to have when you don’t do the school run. I did puzzles and read stories with our second son, B, who liked the attention but missed his brother, confused as to why we had tea without him.
T loves going to friend’s houses – on one visit he played on a Nintendo Wii and has been asking “do you know which shop to buy one from?” ever since. He also loves having friends for tea, and it’s interesting to see what he proudly points out as we pull into the drive.
You learn something of their perception of their home life when they explain what’s important to a friend or compare their life with something they experience elsewhere. When I was a child I can vividly remember wanting to live in the local cul-de-sac where it was much better to ride bikes. I loved going round to my friend’s house to have soda stream and play with her Girl’s World. She was fascinated by our Landrover and just wanted to sit in the cab, calling it “the big old truck”.
I’ve realised that little things that were important as a child stay with you for the rest of your life. Which is why it can be so daunting as a parent, wondering what your child’s formative experiences and lasting memories will be.
The second time a friend came back my son had had a serious fall in the playground and after tea didn’t feel like playing and sat drooping on the sofa. Whilst it certainly wasn’t T’s fault I felt sorry for the guest who entertained himself with lego on the floor, waiting for his mum to arrive. I called my husband in anxious whispers, asking him to come home asap as I was worried T had concussion and how would I get four children to casualty in a hurry.
T went to a friend’s house today. It’s amazing how much time you seem to have when you don’t do the school run. I did puzzles and read stories with our second son, B, who liked the attention but missed his brother, confused as to why we had tea without him.
T loves going to friend’s houses – on one visit he played on a Nintendo Wii and has been asking “do you know which shop to buy one from?” ever since. He also loves having friends for tea, and it’s interesting to see what he proudly points out as we pull into the drive.
You learn something of their perception of their home life when they explain what’s important to a friend or compare their life with something they experience elsewhere. When I was a child I can vividly remember wanting to live in the local cul-de-sac where it was much better to ride bikes. I loved going round to my friend’s house to have soda stream and play with her Girl’s World. She was fascinated by our Landrover and just wanted to sit in the cab, calling it “the big old truck”.
I’ve realised that little things that were important as a child stay with you for the rest of your life. Which is why it can be so daunting as a parent, wondering what your child’s formative experiences and lasting memories will be.
Friday, 6 February 2009
A bit of snow and we all give up!
Okay, so we’ve had the worst snow in years but I still think they close the schools too easily these days. My eldest son goes to the village school where most people walk, or could walk to school, and yet it has been closed for two days. By mid-morning roads were easily passable and I know lots of people were travelling about to see friends and family – if travel logistics were the reason for closing, why could they not have just opened school later?
I hope that whoever was responsible for closing the school – the headmistress, teachers who didn’t make enough effort to get in, overly-cautious council officials – feel ashamed of their over-reaction, especially when watching stories on the news about conscientious nurses who walked for two hours to make sure they got to work and honoured their commitments.
Closing the school sets a bad example to the children. What it says to them is that when things get tough we just give up. Surely it would be more inspiring, and in keeping with the school's ethos, to adapt and pull together, to rise to the challenge of a snowy day rather than give in to slight inconvenience.
I’ve drafted an email to the headmistress and governors expressing my disappointment; I’m sure they’ll be delighted to hear from me and I’m still undecided on whether to press send. I have no illusions that it will make any difference; it will just leave me earmarked as a pain in the arse. But is it not important to speak up and let officials know that we don’t all agree with their defeatist attitude?
I’m sure there were many concerns for “health and safety”. Of course we must give consideration to safety but I do believe that reasoning is over-used in current society. Parents are capable of taking more time and using more care in getting their children to school and the pupils at the school are of the calibre to understand why they might not, for example, be allowed to play in certain areas of the playground that day. Wouldn’t it be more impressive if the school administration showed it had more strength of character, that it wasn't going to feebly give up because some litigious minded official suggested it should?
One of the school’s strengths is that it is part of the village community and on days like today I think it should be proudly functioning, like many other aspects of our hard working community were despite the snow, thanks to the determination of many people. Perseverance is a virtue missing to the detriment of today’s society and we can only teach our children that through example.
I hope that whoever was responsible for closing the school – the headmistress, teachers who didn’t make enough effort to get in, overly-cautious council officials – feel ashamed of their over-reaction, especially when watching stories on the news about conscientious nurses who walked for two hours to make sure they got to work and honoured their commitments.
Closing the school sets a bad example to the children. What it says to them is that when things get tough we just give up. Surely it would be more inspiring, and in keeping with the school's ethos, to adapt and pull together, to rise to the challenge of a snowy day rather than give in to slight inconvenience.
I’ve drafted an email to the headmistress and governors expressing my disappointment; I’m sure they’ll be delighted to hear from me and I’m still undecided on whether to press send. I have no illusions that it will make any difference; it will just leave me earmarked as a pain in the arse. But is it not important to speak up and let officials know that we don’t all agree with their defeatist attitude?
I’m sure there were many concerns for “health and safety”. Of course we must give consideration to safety but I do believe that reasoning is over-used in current society. Parents are capable of taking more time and using more care in getting their children to school and the pupils at the school are of the calibre to understand why they might not, for example, be allowed to play in certain areas of the playground that day. Wouldn’t it be more impressive if the school administration showed it had more strength of character, that it wasn't going to feebly give up because some litigious minded official suggested it should?
One of the school’s strengths is that it is part of the village community and on days like today I think it should be proudly functioning, like many other aspects of our hard working community were despite the snow, thanks to the determination of many people. Perseverance is a virtue missing to the detriment of today’s society and we can only teach our children that through example.
Thursday, 22 January 2009
Friends for Tea
When your first child starts school it’s as much of a change for you as it is for them. Days are dictated by a fixed schedule and you have new challenges to face. One of these is Friends for Tea.
My son has just started asking to have friends over for tea after school. I’ve discovered that there is quite a network of children going to each other’s houses, something we’ve not been part of. This has started to make me panic about my child being left out. Why has he not been asked when he seems to be popular at school? Do the parents find me too unapproachable? Do the children not really like him at all?
Fortunately, my son doesn’t have any of these anxieties, he just wants to have some friends over for tea. But for his mother this involves a whole new area of emotional turmoil. Firstly, with three young children, “after school” is a time of utter chaos. Everyone is tired and grouchy and I barely manage to prepare tea while they sit in a trance in front of the TV, fight or whine while baby cries for attention. I feel quite anxious about exposing a relative stranger to us at our weakest time of day. What will they go home and report to their parents? I will have to be organised and in good spirits, which is not usual by that time!
Secondly, there are the logistics. What will I cook? What do other children have for tea? I will have to find space in the car for a fourth child. I will have to be prepared for the three year old to be distressed the whole time the friend is here because he will be the “little brother”, unwanted in the dynamics of big boys games.
And then there’s the anxiety of being completely responsible for a stranger’s child. Until now, friends have come to play with their mums. Pre school, the reality is that your children socialise with children whose mums you want to chat to. Inviting friends to play is as much for your enjoyment as theirs. Friends for Tea means extra work without the therapy of chat. As my son makes friends I will have to leave my clique and introduce myself to their mothers, and even in my thirties that makes me feel shy and vulnerable. Relationships in the school playground are as complicated for the parents as the children.
This morning in the playground I was supposed to have made lots of enthusiastic plans with the mothers of the children my son has selected. Instead I stood alone feeling reticent to start the process which will change the relaxed sloppiness of our after school hibernation for ever. Who should I invite first? Will I be upsetting other mums or unwittingly butting in on social groups already carefully formed – I discovered that three of my son’s friends are meeting for tea tonight, happily this doesn’t faze him! There is a hidden protocol to having a school child, a lifestyle change I’m still getting used to. Having spent the journey home worrying about it my husband has told me to just listen to our son and invite people as he requests because thankfully, five year old boys don’t seem to have the social anxieties their mothers have.
My son has just started asking to have friends over for tea after school. I’ve discovered that there is quite a network of children going to each other’s houses, something we’ve not been part of. This has started to make me panic about my child being left out. Why has he not been asked when he seems to be popular at school? Do the parents find me too unapproachable? Do the children not really like him at all?
Fortunately, my son doesn’t have any of these anxieties, he just wants to have some friends over for tea. But for his mother this involves a whole new area of emotional turmoil. Firstly, with three young children, “after school” is a time of utter chaos. Everyone is tired and grouchy and I barely manage to prepare tea while they sit in a trance in front of the TV, fight or whine while baby cries for attention. I feel quite anxious about exposing a relative stranger to us at our weakest time of day. What will they go home and report to their parents? I will have to be organised and in good spirits, which is not usual by that time!
Secondly, there are the logistics. What will I cook? What do other children have for tea? I will have to find space in the car for a fourth child. I will have to be prepared for the three year old to be distressed the whole time the friend is here because he will be the “little brother”, unwanted in the dynamics of big boys games.
And then there’s the anxiety of being completely responsible for a stranger’s child. Until now, friends have come to play with their mums. Pre school, the reality is that your children socialise with children whose mums you want to chat to. Inviting friends to play is as much for your enjoyment as theirs. Friends for Tea means extra work without the therapy of chat. As my son makes friends I will have to leave my clique and introduce myself to their mothers, and even in my thirties that makes me feel shy and vulnerable. Relationships in the school playground are as complicated for the parents as the children.
This morning in the playground I was supposed to have made lots of enthusiastic plans with the mothers of the children my son has selected. Instead I stood alone feeling reticent to start the process which will change the relaxed sloppiness of our after school hibernation for ever. Who should I invite first? Will I be upsetting other mums or unwittingly butting in on social groups already carefully formed – I discovered that three of my son’s friends are meeting for tea tonight, happily this doesn’t faze him! There is a hidden protocol to having a school child, a lifestyle change I’m still getting used to. Having spent the journey home worrying about it my husband has told me to just listen to our son and invite people as he requests because thankfully, five year old boys don’t seem to have the social anxieties their mothers have.
Tuesday, 7 October 2008
Help, all common sense is lost!
Yesterday my son came home from school with a shaker he'd made, a paper plate folded in half and filled with pasta. Glued to it was a typed note: Please be aware that this shaker contains small parts. Thank you.
Is this the level of paranoia we've reached in our society? Have we become so quick to blame someone and litigate over the slightest incident that a primary school feels it necessary to put a warning on an artwork project?
Is this the level of paranoia we've reached in our society? Have we become so quick to blame someone and litigate over the slightest incident that a primary school feels it necessary to put a warning on an artwork project?
Sunday, 14 September 2008
Starting School
My eldest son has just started school. It is a new era, life changing for all of us. He has been fantastic, so brave. After a few nerves on his first visit he now walks ahead of me up to school, swinging his book bag singing “big school big school” to himself. He’s proud to look smart in his uniform, proud to tell me about the new rules and routines – “ you have to say ‘please may I go to the toilet’” – and he’s already into the new language, telling me about “Year 1’s” and “Year 2’s” as if it’s something he’s been aware of all his life.
It seems to be harder for the rest of us to adapt. Younger brother took some persuading to go to nursery on his own and looked lost at first without big brother to trail after. He has a matching polo shirt, his “uniform” which he insists on putting on and changing out of when his brother does. “We’ve never been split up before,” T said rather touchingly, feeling lonely while he hung about with me waiting to go to afternoon school.
I feel I’ve spent the whole week in the car - he’s only doing half days. There are also rules and regulations which I have to get right. I live in fear of being late to pick him up. I feel claustrophobic about being locked into the school timetable for the next twenty years. Most of all it’s difficult letting go of my little boy.
It’s very strange watching him walk away from me into class. He looks very new and small, as if he’s shrunk slightly inside his uniform because I bought sizes to last. It’s such a relief when two hours later he runs out smiling, the hovering mothers closing in to receive their children. “So, what did you do today?” I ask brightly. I want to know everything without seeming to give him a grilling. I know I’ve overdone it when he replies “oh no, not that question again,” on day two. But he actually tells me quite a lot, proud to recount the day’s routine and perform a rendition of a song they’ve learnt.
Some things he says make me feel sick. “Someone tripped me up in the playground” he reported casually and I went into turmoil, imagining older children thinking it funny to pick on the new, little reception boys running innocently around. He seemed so vulnerable, let out alone into the big, bad world of the playground. Eventually, through careful probing questions – I wanted to find out what went on without him realising I was concerned – I learnt he’d tripped over someone’s game, purely accidental. I’m now trying to think positively about the event, to be pleased that he feels able to enter that huge, new environment, cope with a fall, pick himself up and carry on and be very matter of fact about it. In paranoid moments I’m hoping his bravery is not a front hiding fear inside. In rational moments I’m proud that he’s growing up and coping well with independence and new, intimidating situations.
Starting school is as much about me letting go as T entering formal education. As I was tucking him in tonight he said “I love school” and that’s what matters.
It seems to be harder for the rest of us to adapt. Younger brother took some persuading to go to nursery on his own and looked lost at first without big brother to trail after. He has a matching polo shirt, his “uniform” which he insists on putting on and changing out of when his brother does. “We’ve never been split up before,” T said rather touchingly, feeling lonely while he hung about with me waiting to go to afternoon school.
I feel I’ve spent the whole week in the car - he’s only doing half days. There are also rules and regulations which I have to get right. I live in fear of being late to pick him up. I feel claustrophobic about being locked into the school timetable for the next twenty years. Most of all it’s difficult letting go of my little boy.
It’s very strange watching him walk away from me into class. He looks very new and small, as if he’s shrunk slightly inside his uniform because I bought sizes to last. It’s such a relief when two hours later he runs out smiling, the hovering mothers closing in to receive their children. “So, what did you do today?” I ask brightly. I want to know everything without seeming to give him a grilling. I know I’ve overdone it when he replies “oh no, not that question again,” on day two. But he actually tells me quite a lot, proud to recount the day’s routine and perform a rendition of a song they’ve learnt.
Some things he says make me feel sick. “Someone tripped me up in the playground” he reported casually and I went into turmoil, imagining older children thinking it funny to pick on the new, little reception boys running innocently around. He seemed so vulnerable, let out alone into the big, bad world of the playground. Eventually, through careful probing questions – I wanted to find out what went on without him realising I was concerned – I learnt he’d tripped over someone’s game, purely accidental. I’m now trying to think positively about the event, to be pleased that he feels able to enter that huge, new environment, cope with a fall, pick himself up and carry on and be very matter of fact about it. In paranoid moments I’m hoping his bravery is not a front hiding fear inside. In rational moments I’m proud that he’s growing up and coping well with independence and new, intimidating situations.
Starting school is as much about me letting go as T entering formal education. As I was tucking him in tonight he said “I love school” and that’s what matters.
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