How I learnt to cope with school as a mother
Finally Friday. The last day of school before the winter holidays. An eventful few months are drawing to a close, packed to the brim with school activities: parents’ evenings, the «Räbeliechtli» parade, a reading night, Advent and carol concerts, as well as parents’ consultation hours, and meetings regarding school enrolment and progression have followed one after another almost seamlessly. One senses: The real challenge of parenthood lies not in balancing career and children, but in school.
As long as the race through the school system hasn't begun, parenthood is comparatively easy. It boils down to night-time wake-up calls, delightful piles of toys all over the flat, and a child's natural aversion to weather-appropriate clothing. But as soon as the offspring stumbles onto the school stage, a whole new level of confrontation begins. Instead of the protective fog of one or two primary caregivers, there are suddenly countless figures: teachers, teaching assistants, special needs teachers, social workers and headteachers. Entire worlds of which the child had no inkling.
Parents' evening on high chairs
It is even more life-changing for the parents. Suddenly, a major rival intrudes on the loving relationship between parent and child: school. My eldest son started Year 1 six years ago. The parents’ evening was a big event. Out of sheer enthusiasm, I allowed myself to be elected as a parent representative there, with the usual sigh that wasn't entirely free of vanity: Someone's got to do it, after all. In the course of my duties, I have attended countless parents’ evenings. One in particular has stayed with me. A father complained bitterly: «My child shouldn't have to walk to school. The road! The lorries! And what if it rains?» The thought that a twelve-minute unsupervised walk home could also mean freedom for a child was a distant one. There, on those uncomfortable little children's chairs, my legs far too long and awkwardly tucked away somewhere, I had my first doubt: does someone really have to do it?
The next parents’ evening, too – this time about starting school – was completely at odds with what we mums and dads had expected and perhaps were used to from nursery or daycare. Without beating about the bush, the teacher explained, in a sort of tribunal-like setting, what she thought of discipline (a great deal), what material needed to be covered (reading by Christmas thanks to Peter and Susi), who else taught the children (special needs teacher, craft teacher, music teacher, IT teacher) and what sort of paperwork (countless forms) would need to be filled in in the near future.
Notes on a paper figure
By then, at the very latest, it had become clear to all of us just how hopelessly outdated the school system of our youth is today. When the term «degree regulations» was mentioned and we were told that auditions, as well as the way the edges of the paper cut-out were trimmed, would be graded, the girl sitting next to me gasped. One father was already filling the second page of his notebook, beads of sweat on his nose. I shifted about in my chair like a drifting continental plate.
And we hadn't even got round to discussing the timetable, the schedule for make-up lessons, emergency lessons and catch-up lessons. Not to mention helping to lace up ice skates or the manner in which the birthday cake (sliced, with napkins) was to be brought along. Silence spread. The expected barrage of detailed questions failed to materialise. We mums and dads were far too perplexed, having diligently practised letting go over the past two years of nursery. And now this concentrated mass of information. Unbuffered. What is happening to our princes and princesses?
Regaining power
The following weeks made it clear. Because at school, every child – even the most obedient prince and the prettiest princess – is just one among many. Equal rights and equal responsibilities apply here. Overnight, little darlings become little schoolchildren. It is quite possible that the teacher might even favour another child over mine, and inevitably the day comes when the child has to copy an improvement exercise for the second time or tackle three pages of maths problems, whether they feel like it or not. The moment is sure to come when they have to stay behind after school for a silly mistake or have forgotten their PE kit and are not allowed to join in. This thought is unpleasant. Some parents then foam at the mouth with indignation and vent their wounded pride in an email or a conversation. Even greater anxiety prevails in the middle school, when the playful ease of the lower school fades and the focus shifts to securing a place in the next level. Do you really want to be part of that?
At school, every child – even the most well-behaved prince and the prettiest princess – is just one among many.
On the other hand, there is also the group of parents who immediately show solidarity with the entire teaching staff. They bring in homemade treats for every conceivable occasion, demand an extra booklet of optional homework, or voluntarily mop the floor after school events. Yet, even after many years, I remain even more perplexed by that breed who regard social learning as nonsense and insist on being told daily about all the misdeeds of the other children.
The things my little ones did and do in secret are, with few exceptions, none of my business, because: doesn't every child have the right to a bit of unstructured private life and secrets? Do we really want to know everything they get up to every day? Are control and all-encompassing protection really in the best interests of the child? The helicopter parents say: Yes. They complain loudly at specially convened parents’ evenings, to the neighbours and, in stubborn cases, even in person, that their daughter had a single glove hidden from her or that their son was pelted with cherry stones on the way home – twice, no less!
No finishing is required
That's school too: rowdiness in the playground. A battleground somewhere between adoration and aggression. A place where even a ten-year-old can still have a great game of hide-and-seek and where the whole lot of us crumble the biscuits together. But it's also a place where, for the basest of reasons, you might wish for some seriously nasty insults to be hurled at you, start a brawl, or risk a clean tackle during a football match. Outraged and breathless tempers – and sometimes physical scrapes and bruises – then need soothing at the family dinner table, and a few dozen missing items need replacing. Yes, my child has also had their cap thrown into the stream, been hit on the head and had their glasses bent out of shape. The highlight was a top-of-the-list swear word that a jealous classmate shouted at my Year 1 pupil (and which was actually meant for me). He was so flustered by this that he even forgot to ignore the broccoli on his plate at lunch. Unpleasant tests of patience, certainly, but nevertheless I have come to the conclusion: no, you really don't have to talk about everything. Having a schoolchild simply does not mean articulating your individual educational ideals unsolicited in a sort of fundamental debate at every opportunity.
School is about education, not a service. Teachers are well aware of this, but unfortunately not all parents are.
Praising your child's tattling by berating another child—even though you weren't even there—ultimately serves only to boost your own ego, not the child's. If there's a dispute, it's sorted out. Full stop. A child either wins or suffers a defeat without adults having to rush over with sirens blaring. School is about education, not a service. This is clear to teachers, but unfortunately not to all parents.
After having sat through at least 20 parents’ evenings – most of them light-hearted and peaceful – I came to realise that the feelings that overwhelm the parents of a new schoolchild are based on an unpleasant emotion: jealousy. For when a child starts school, a new force takes hold of our child and will shape them. Teachers do the child good, even if they will never love them as much as their own parents do, and even though they try to treat all the children in the class equally. This seems easy to understand, but emotionally it remains difficult. That is why many parents will always be suspicious.
It's good when school challenges the children. And it's fun, too.
But shouldn't parents’ energy be better spent thinking about how they might contribute to the debate on improving the quality of education and upbringing? Staying out of children's squabbles: yes! But that doesn't mean staying out of school. It means being curious and taking an interest in what your child experiences outside the home. Because it's also good for school to set some challenges for the children. And it's fun, too. Museum visits, field trips, university excursions, hikes, school fetes with a ghost train: I could only dream of all that during my school days, and even I did plenty of interesting things. So cries of outrage should be channelled into calm acceptance, or at least benefit those underprivileged children who are always left out on school trips. Or that child who always arrives late for lessons without having had breakfast and misses out on excursions because nobody wakes them up in the morning.
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This article is taken from our special edition «Schöne Schulzeit», which is aimed specifically at parents whose children are about to start primary school. You can reorder the magazine here .