Schools of thought

I was going to pack all this blog nonsense in. I was worried that I'd dried up a bit, so I was going to nip myself in the bud. I had just been putting off my final masterpiece post (masterpost?), not because I couldn't face the end, if I'm honest, but because I wasn't sufficiently confident that it would be masterful.

But hallelujahs and jubilations: I can defer this dilemma for a bit longer, because there has been a development! Like many parents of four year-olds across the land last week, we were informed by the council which school was to be graced by the presence of our child (the other parents were informed about their own children, you understand; not ours). This revelation - as well as its obvious implications for my eldest daughter - has taught me more about myself than I could have imagined.

A few months ago we conducted a logistically quite challenging tour of local primary schools in a diligent attempt to find the perfect place of learning for our firstborn. While we value intelligence, our main concern was always for the environment in which it is nurtured. Would our daughter be comfortable and happy there? Eventually, and not without some fierce debate, we settled upon our three preferences. Our third choice was a charming little village school, with classrooms inventively fashioned from old Victorian offices and a playing field down an inappropriately steep slope. It had its romantic merits, but was a bit rough around the edges.

Our second preference was another small, village affair. Small classes and clearly passionate teachers, shepherded by a refreshingly personable headteacher whose love of the outdoors served only to complement an impressively open-plan, modern building whose quality of light would leave even George Clarke at a loss for which walls to knock through. But it was very religious. I am very much not very religious. Neither is my wife.

Our number one educational establishment was a larger school, most similar of the three to the one I went to, many moons hence. Its academic record was very impressive but, more importantly, it seemed to foster a culture centred around children's all-round development. Despite the potentially overwhelming size of its population, this was a school which really cared about each pupil fulfilling their potential, in whatever direction that took. I felt at home there, and was confident that my daughter would. The parking provision was bloody awful though.

Although we live just outside the standard catchment area of our first choice school, it is still comfortably the closest of the three to our house. So I relaxed my way through the lengthy wait to discover our daughter's educational fate, confident that we would get our way.

The wait ended a few days ago, and it seems my confidence was somewhat misplaced. Our daughter has been offered a place at the religious school. It was only at the moment of discovery that I realised how much my complacency had screened my fear of this outcome. I was struck by profound disappointment. Why couldn't she go to the closest school? We almost certainly did more research than parents who had got their way, I arbitrarily decided; we should be rewarded for our efforts. Could I live with sending my child each day to a place which works on an assumption I believe to be wrong?

After 24 hours or so of this outraged pomposity, a wave of acceptance washed unexpectedly over me. My parents are religious and I love them; I even have regular and rational conversations with them, on a variety of subjects. I have friends and colleagues whose beliefs span a wide range of deities, all without jeopardising my respect or affection for them. I was brought up in a religious household, attended Sunday school once a week and dutifully sang hymns in school assembly every day, yet I have successfully made up my own mind about all this business.

And that's the crux of it: my issue with religion is that it perpetuates itself through the assumed inheritance by children of their parents' beliefs. Well, I'm proof that this is by no means always the case. Besides which, I'd be a hypocrite to enforce atheism upon my own offspring. This is why I want them to draw their own conclusions as I have mine. And I can hardly claim to be encouraging this if I start censoring their influences. So I'm focussing on the lovely, open-plan building with its big windows and the open-minded headteacher and the obvious, friendly enthusiasm of the staff.

And I'm kind of looking forward to it.

Repetition, repetition, repetition

It's been a while. Again. I think the reason I'm less prolific than was once the case is that, the longer my parenting experience continues, the fewer surprises it provides. If I were to describe it as thoroughly as I used to I would be at grave risk of subjecting you, my army of dedicated fans, to repetition. And nobody wants that. And nobody wants that.

Please don't infer that I'm unhappy about the predictable nature of my family life; children are big fans of routine and I'm something of a variety-phobe myself, if I'm honest. It's just that it doesn't make great reading. I could, for example, describe the horrors of the fever our youngest daughter has suffered for the past three nights, which has seen her temperature come within a sweat bead of 40 degrees celsius on each occasion. We've spent the early hours of the last two mornings plunging her hastily into a cold bath, in desperate and, mercifully, successful attempts to stave off hospital visits.

But my point was that this is not the first time I've detailed an ailment suffered by my youngest daughter. Her considerable abundance of qualities does not include her immune system. She's got a bit of a reputation for it. So no: I won't talk about that. She's been much better today actually, despite still suffering from the kind of rasping cough you'd expect from an ageing stoner. We'll see.

One development which is very new to us is the prospect of sending our eldest to school. She's not due to start for close to a year, but we must decide upon a shortlist of preferences for exactly where she starts within the next couple of months. What's curious is that nobody tells you this stuff. Without a conscientious nature and a helpful sister, this crucial requirement would have remained unknown to me. But fortunately I have a conscientious nature and a helpful sister, so I have spent a large amount of my recent spare time researching and phoning local schools. But there must be people who lack both of these advantages. How are the venues for their children's early learning decided? It's a sinister mystery. Anyway, I've sought advice from teachers and parents I know and I've made various appointments to be treated to guided tours of the more promising schools. I have behaved like a grown-up.

Tomorrow, I fear that this mask will slip. For the first of these appointments looms large, and I feel exposed and under-prepared. What do grown-up, prospective parents wear to school tours? What questions do they ask? Does it relieve or increase the awkwardness caused by the ridiculous, fledgling moustache they are sporting, if they explain that it's for charity? In theory, it should surely be the schools that feel a need to impress the parents, rather than vice versa. But we're told that places are at a premium, so the pressure's on.

I seek consolation in reminding myself that I have always claimed proximity, rather than ambition or attainment, as the primary consideration for primary school. But now the decision has advanced beyond the hypothetical, that conviction will be tested. Perhaps hidden pride is the exposure I'm really afraid of. We'll see.

As with all of these parental fears, we can at least take solace in the thought that experience will make this situation easier the second time around, when it's our youngest's turn. Thank goodness for repetition.

Crawkward

Bless me Blogger, for I have sinned. It's been two months since my last post.

Sorry about that. Bit of writer's block, or something. In fact, I think it's more to do with my altruistic desire to be relentlessly entertaining; to always provide new and original excitement. And the truth is, our parenting lives have been relatively stable recently. Not entirely without incident, but not sufficiently dramatic to awaken my sharing impulse.

Also, I read an article in the Guardian a while ago - one of those provocative opinion pieces designed to get people all riled up and generate furious debate in the comments section - bemoaning the phenomenon of 'sharenting': the practise of enriching the lives of others by flooding social media with evidence of your offspring's shenanigans. "Stop imposing your joy upon others," it commanded. I was ever so satisfied with my smug rebuttal of this theory. "I've got thirteen followers who disagree with your complaint, Johnny Guardian Journalist," I bravely proclaimed (to myself), "Thirteen!" Seriously, though: I'm firmly of the belief that any subject under the sun is of potential interest to somebody and therefore merits writing about. If you don't like it, don't read it. I refuse to read things I'm not interested in all the time. It's easy. Having said all that, I'm a sensitive soul, so perhaps it's no coincidence that I've had a bit of a 'sharenting' hiatus ever since.*

Also, we got Netflix recently, so I've been really busy.

Whatever the reason/excuse for this hiatus, I feel that the time has come to draw it to a close. Here, then, is an exciting summary of What We're Currently Concerned About in Our House:

Poo

Our eldest has long-standing issues with her evacuations. Since being potty trained, she has been through alternating phases of being an accomplished toileteer on the one hand, and suffering from an abject fear of any form of faecal expulsion on the other. There have been weeks when her powers of retention caused her serious physical trouble. There was an anal suppository involved on one occasion. There was some screaming that night.

This is the stuff the 'sharenting' haters object to, isn't it? Oh well. Stop reading then.

Hello?

Good. I'll continue.

Even now, with the suppository days hopefully consigned to the past, we do occasionally have to break out the Lactilose to keep things moving. Only this afternoon I endured half an hour of hysterical anguish from my beloved daughter, because she successfully pooed in the toilet. It was a textbook excretion, yet this left her devastated. Personally, I'll always be a boy who thinks poo is a little bit funny, but our daughter is in danger of having a serious psychological issue with it. I sincerely hope it's a phase which will end naturally, and soon.

Rejection

When our first daughter was a bit younger, she used to have a strange reaction to my having time off work. Or, rather, to my going back to work at the end of it. I would be punished by her for my rude insistence upon returning to spending all day out of the house. I would arrive home each evening, only to be shunned by her; forbidden from demonstrating any assistance or affection. All this would mean sadness for me and hard work for my wife. Mercifully, our eldest is now three, going on sixteen, and her subsequent maturity means that she has no such unreasonable reaction to the ends of Daddy's holidays anymore.

Unfortunately, our youngest has filled this particular niche effortlessly. I recently had a week off work which inevitably ended. Thus, no longer will she treat me to a kiss goodbye in the morning. When I come home in the evening she imposes a restraining order upon me, punishable by screaming if I encroach upon her three metre safe zone. I can't pick her up, fetch her anything, even look at her without high-pitched admonishment. It breaks my heart but I stay strong: I know it's really a form of indirect affection. It's just very, very subtle.

School

I may previously have discussed the problems our eldest had with separation anxiety when she started nursery school. She loved the environment, the staff, the other children, the activities; everything. But she could not abide spending five hours apart from Mummy three times a week. It was extremely traumatic. After a few weeks, there were signs that this terror was beginning to subside. Then she broke her leg. By the time she had recovered it was nearly the end of the term, so we opted to wait until the new term to restart the arduous process of settling in.

The new term starts next week.

I'll level with you: we're a bit scared. But we understand that this development of independence is precisely the reason we must persevere with nursery school. For it is but one year until she'll start at Actual Proper Compulsory School.

This, of course, means that Mummy and I have our own hurdles to overcome. We must do research. I've spoken to a couple of teacher friends about how to choose a school for your child and they were very helpful, suggesting that we use websites and Ofsted reports as a starting point, before taking them with a pinch of salt and arranging to have a look around some likely establishments. The feel we get for them then, I'm told, will be the most reliable factor in finding a place whose educational ethos most closely resembles our own.

But do we even know what our own ethos is? Without wishing to get all political, I'm very much of the opinion that primary school should be about engaging children in the ideas of curiosity and exploration; equipping them with the tools to learn happily and meaningfully when the serious stuff starts at secondary school. It should not be about test-oriented memory training. Recent developments at the Department for Education, however, seem to suggest that schools which share my way of thinking are not at all de rigueur. They should be more de rigour, according to Michael Gove, the despicable idealogue who has somehow been given responsibility for this sort of thing. All of which fills me with more trepidation at the thought of embarking upon this necessary research than my daughter is filled with at the thought of going back to nursery next week.

Sorry. I get a bit carried away sometimes. That must have read like one of those provocative opinion pieces designed to get people all riled up and generate furious debate in the comments section.

*Perhaps I'm being some sort of snob, but the word 'sharenting' itself riles me up. I'm instinctively wary of the 'Brangelina' style conflation of two words. It's just a bit crass and awkward. Or 'crawkward'.