One of the truly brilliant things to come out of the pandemic is the sudden, clunking realisation that the NHS is an absolutely bloody marvellous thing. Many millions of people have forever extolled the virtues of the incredible doctors and nurses in this country, but I highly suspect there are a fair few (I’m looking at the politicians) who have spent a very long time treating them abhorrently.
They are paid too little, there are too few of them and - as a result of both those things - their workload is astronomical.
But I would wager that the same could be said of teachers. My mum is a (fairly recently) retired teacher and I think it’s fair to say that when she first entered the profession it was a pretty enjoyable career. But I know that by the time she retired the process and hoop jumping had gone beyond a joke, to the point that the generous holidays that compensated for the pretty sad salary were all but eaten up with marking, lesson planning, report writing and other admin that had become such a massive part of the job.
As a result of growing up with that, and seeing the passion decrease and the stress increase, I’ve always had a genuine admiration for teachers.
And holy smokes has that respect grown in the last few weeks. How the hell anyone teaches 30 six and seven year olds - and all with a complete mix of ability, interest and attitude - is honestly completely beyond me. I just cannot fathom how they even begin.
One of the recurring themes of the WhatsApp chat with other school mums is how much work - or not - our year two kids are getting through. They’ve been assigned daily exercises for English, Maths and one other topic, and are expected to read to us a minimum of three times a week and do two online Maths challenges.
I’ve lost quite a bit of perspective lately (not just on this - yesterday I stropped off swearing under my breath because Henry was jumping too loudly) so I don’t know if that’s a lot or not much. Friends with children at other schools are having variously different experiences - quite a few are having online Zoom lessons with their teachers, others are just expected to send their kids back alive and vaguely literate.
Henry is keeping up with the tasks he’s been set but only thanks to me cracking the whip at every turn. (If I have said once ‘please stop making this my problem’ I have said it a thousand times.) But as time ticks past I’ve come to accept that none of this work will ever see the light of day. No teacher is going to wade through 30 exercise books containing 15 assignments per week for the last eight/12/16 weeks. That could be something in the region of 7000 pieces of marking. Since I realised that I’ve rather taken my foot off the gas.
He’s doing a lot of reading, and I’ve taken the liberty of promoting him up a book band. For those unfamiliar with the process, primary schools rank children’s reading ability in colour (or number) and it is up to their teacher when they jump up to the next level. When this happens at school it is always a cause of much celebration in our house, and the fanfare was no less subdued for his progress being my own doing.
But beyond that, I’m starting to see the written work as simply a tool to pass the time. Give him some focus and keep his brain warm.
He’s been finding plenty of other things to do to amuse himself and I’m fairly certain each and every one will stand him in as much stead as knowing the intricacies of what canals were for historically, the difference between physical and human geographical features and learning how to paint using his mouth.
Don’t get me wrong, this is all good stuff, but I reckon he’ll be able to pick much of it up later on.
For now he’s keeping busy in other ways. He’s built a chair, compete with foot rest, arms and a reinforced legs so I’m allowed to sit on it (cheers Henners). He’s not only come on in leaps and bounds with his guitar but he’s taken to teaching Andy, who pledged to learn alongside him but is already falling behind with remembering new chords.
Bella has pretty much nailed riding her bike without stabilisers (along with every other 4 and 5 year old in the country if my social feeds are anything to go by) and is starting to whip up and down trees in Henry’s wake with confidence.
Both kids now know the ‘correct’ way to get over a five-bar gate, they can identify half a dozen wild flowers, Bella knows the difference between a stinging nettle and a dead nettle (because Henry taught her because my dad taught him last year - which is just a glorious little chain of knowledge), and they’ve both picked up a lot of baby sign language. Xander’s classes - my only concession to baby groups with him - have gone online and the big kids love it, Bella in particular. They sing the songs, learn the signs and use them with him all the time.
And, inevitably, they’ve all picked up some skills I could have lived without. Henry is now adept at operating the DVD player, Bella can install a virtual background on a Zoom call quicker than Andy can reverse it, and Xander has not only learnt to recognise all our names but, we have just discovered, turns to look in the direction of our Google Home speaker when you say ‘Hey Google’. The shame.
So as time marches on I am becoming less worried about whether we’ve ticked every box on the worksheet. I’d rather use this time to instil a love of walking, allow them to listen to hours of talking books, let them learn how to make pancakes and teach them some table manners. (That one isn’t going so well.)
And tell myself over and over that watching a film a day for six months won’t do them any long term harm. Even if, more often than not, it is Alvin and the unbelievably irritating Chipmunks.
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