How I learnt to master school as a mother
Friday at last. The last day of school before the sports holidays. Eventful months are coming to an end, packed full of school activities: parents' evenings, the Räbeliechtli parade, reading night, Advent and singing concerts as well as parent-teacher conferences, school enrolment and transfer interviews all follow each other almost seamlessly. You guessed it: the real challenge of being a parent is not balancing career and child, but school.
As long as the uphill climb through the school system has not yet begun, life as a parent is comparatively easy. It exhausts itself in nightly wake-up calls, delightful piles of toys all over the house and a child's natural aversion to weather-appropriate clothing. But as soon as the offspring stumble onto the school stage, the new levels of confrontation begin. Instead of the protective fog of one or two caregivers, there are suddenly loads of them: teachers, assistant teachers, remedial teachers, social workers and head teachers. Universes that the child didn't even realise existed.
Parents' evening on children's chairs
It is even more upsetting for the parents. Suddenly a major rival intrudes into the love affair between parents and child: school. My eldest son started first grade six years ago. The parents' evening was a big event. Out of sheer enthusiasm, I got myself elected as a parent representative there, with the usual sigh, not entirely free of vanity: someone has to do it. By virtue of my office, I have attended countless parents' evenings. One in particular stuck in my memory. One father complained a lot: My child can't be expected to walk to school. The road! The lorries! And what if it rains? The idea that twelve minutes of unsupervised walking home could also mean freedom for a child was a distant thought. There, on the uncomfortable children's chairs, my far too long legs tucked away somewhere with great effort, I doubted for the first time: does anyone really have to do it?
The next parents' evening, this time about starting school, was not at all what we mums and dads expected and perhaps knew from the crèche or nursery. Without further ado, the teacher told us in a kind of tribunal scene what she thought of discipline (a lot), what material had to be mastered (reading by Christmas thanks to Peter and Susi), who else was teaching the children (remedial teacher, craft teacher, music teacher, computer teacher) and what kind of papers (countless) would have to be filled out in the near future.
Notes for a paper figure
It was then that we all realised how hopelessly outdated the school model of our youth is today. When the word «promotion regulations» was mentioned and we were told that auditions and the way in which the edge of the paper figure was cut out would also be graded, my neighbour considered snapping. A father was already writing all over the second sheet of his notebook, beads of sweat on his nose. I slid around on the chair like a drifting continental plate.
The timetable, substitute lessons, emergency lessons and catch-up lessons hadn't even been mentioned yet. Not to mention helping to tie the skates or how to bring the birthday cake (portioned, with napkins). Silence spread. The expected barrage of detailed questions failed to materialise. We mums and dads were far too perplexed, having practised letting go over the past two years of kindergarten. And now this pile of information. Unpadded. What is happening to our princes and princesses?
Taking back the power
The coming weeks made it clear. Because at school, every child, even the most obedient prince and the prettiest princess, is just one of many. Equal rights and equal duties apply here. Little wishful children become little school citizens overnight. It is quite possible that the teacher will even prefer another child to mine, and inevitably the day will come when the child has to copy out an improvement for the second time or complete three pages of maths, whether they feel like it or not. There will certainly also come a time when they have to go to detention for something stupid or have forgotten their PE kit and are not allowed to join in. This is an unpleasant thought. Some parents then fume with indignation and express their wounded pride in an email or a conversation. Even more nervousness is only rampant in the middle school, when the playful ease of the lower school fades and it's time to push through the transfer to the next level. Do you really want to be there?
At school, every child, even the most obedient 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 contribute home-baked goods for every conceivable occasion, demand an extra booklet with optional homework or voluntarily mop the floor after school events. However, even after many years, I am still baffled by the species that regards social learning as nonsense and has all the misdeeds of the other children reported to them on a daily basis.
With a few exceptions, the things that my little fruits did and do in secret are none of my business, because: Doesn't every child have the right to a bit of an unstructured life of their own and secrets? Do we really want to know everything they do every day? Are control and all-encompassing protection really appropriate for children? The helicopter parents say yes. They complain loudly at a specially convened parents' evening, to the neighbours and, in persistent cases, even in person that their daughter has been hidden a glove or their son has had cherry stones thrown at him on the way home, even twice!
Arbitration is not necessary
That's school too: arguments in the playground. A playground between adoration and aggression. A place where even ten-year-olds can play hide-and-seek and collectively crumble the break-time crackers. But it's also a place where you can wish for blatant insults to be thrown at you, start a brawl or risk a clean leg kick in a football match. Outraged and breathless tempers, sometimes even physical scratches, then have to be soothed at the family table and a few dozen missing items have to be replaced. Yes, even my child's hat has been thrown into the stream, his head hit and his glasses bent. The highlight was a swear word at the top of the index, which a jealous classmate shouted at my first-grader (and which was actually directed at me). He was so irritated that he even forgot to ignore the broccoli on his plate at lunch. Unpleasant tests of patience, of course, but I still came to the conclusion: no, you don't actually have to talk about everything. Having a schoolchild doesn't mean you have to articulate your individual educational ideals in a kind of fundamental debate at every opportunity without being asked.
School is education, not a service. Teachers realise this, but unfortunately not all parents do.
Praising your child's snitching while the parents insult another child, even though they weren't even there, ultimately only serves the ego, not the child. If there is a dispute, it will be settled. Full stop. A child wins or suffers a defeat without adults having to rush over with flashing blue lights and sirens. School is education, not a service. Teachers realise this, but unfortunately not all parents do.
After certainly 20 mostly cheerful and peaceful parents' evenings, I came to realise that the feelings that overcome the parents of a new schoolchild are based on an unpleasant sentiment: jealousy. Because when they start school, a new force takes possession of our child and will shape it. The teachers do the child good, even though they will never love them as much as their own parents and even though they try to treat all the children in the class equally. This is seemingly easy to understand, but emotionally it remains difficult. That's why many parents will always be suspicious.
It's good when school demands something from the children. And it's also fun.
But shouldn't parental energy be channelled into thinking about how to contribute to the discussion about improving the quality of education and upbringing? Staying out of children's disputes: yes! That doesn't mean staying out of school. It means being curious and taking an interest in what the child experiences outside the home. Because it's also good when school demands something from the children. And it's also fun. Museum visits, real-life expeditions, university trips, hikes, school parties with a ghost train: I could only dream of all this when I was at school, and even I did a lot of interesting things. So cries of indignation should be channelled into calmness or at least benefit those under-protected children who always go unvisited on visiting days. Or the child who is always late for lessons without breakfast and misses out on excursions because nobody wakes them up in the morning.
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