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Last Updated: 07/12/2017 09:07:02
An update, for those who read an earlier musing in which I compared my daughter to a Russian matryoshka doll, with all past versions of herself still nested inside. Turns out there was one more version to come, this one literally contained within her. I am now a grandparent.
The little one came into the world a week before his mother’s birthday. She texted to say “For the first time in my life, my own birthday seems completely irrelevant.” Welcome to parenthood, kiddo. Into that same storage cupboard you can also stow away unbroken sleep, long indulgent dinners and the thought of ever travelling light anywhere again.
Of course, for every intrusion and future anxiety, she has ten times as many joys awaiting her. Being someone’s Mum or Dad is a rollercoaster of emotions that doesn’t stop. As new parents, we think the succession of “firsts” will end after the first word, first step, first tooth. But they just keep coming. First partner, job, house. Hallelujah - first loan that wasn’t from me. And now, first child.
That novelty has been different for us both though. I expected the same feelings I had when she was born. Elation. Terror. In the event though, being ‘Grandad’ brought entirely different emotions. When our own children arrive, we are consumed by the here-and-now. From nappies to missing sports kit to incomprehensible Maths homework, we bounce from one chapter of Parenting for Dummies to the next without a break.
One second they’re learning to crawl, the next they’re learning to drive. I blinked and we went from temperamental toddlers to teenage tantrums (pretty much the same thing, only with extra sarcasm). It is unrelenting. How are you supposed to contemplate university choices when you’re still reeling from the fact that your ability to name all of Thomas the Tank Engine’s friends no longer impresses?
Even today, I still can’t get a clear line of sight on where my children are headed. Yet my grandson is a different matter altogether. From the moment he arrived safely, my mind has been filled with what life holds in store for him. I see his future stretching out, the possibilities of his journey. Possibly that’s because my life’s work has been education. Or perhaps it is just because I don’t have to change the next nappy. Maybe though, after 27 years of parenting, I’m starting to see how this all pans out. That it’s not so easy to mess up, no matter how inept you feel at times. They turn out alright. Don’t sweat the small stuff etc etc.
So I shared this newfound sense of optimistic enthusiasm with my daughter. My enlightened insight into her baby’s journey through the world. She seemed surprisingly disinterested. A slight misalignment in priorities. While I was pondering how he would grow up, she was considering where he would next throw up. “I have a detailed life plan” I enthused. “That is less than helpful Father” she said, collapsing the stroller one-handed into the car boot whilst juggling the baby, two bags of groceries and an umbrella.
Not long after my daughter’s birthday text, another one arrived. “Christmas is so different when you have a child to make it special for - even though he has no clue about it at 2 months.” I think she is starting to get the hang of this parenting thing.
No better way for me to wish every Bromsgrove family a joyful Christmas break. For all my wistful reverie about the wondrous span of our children’s lives, each life is made up of moments. None more important than times like this. No matter how you traditionally spend this time of the year, may you spend it together as a family, making your children feel as treasured and precious as they undoubtedly are, whatever their age. Merry Christmas.
Last Updated: 15/09/2017 12:29:44
Given my upbringing, I am mildly surprised to still be alive. Not that I was unduly reckless or my parents neglectful. But society in the Seventies, my school in particular, did a pretty good job of convincing the young that we were all destined to perish in a nuclear holocaust. The prevailing expectation was that the Cold War was soon to become very hot and irradiated. The question was never whether it would happen, just when?
This gloomy outlook extended well beyond the media who, it may be argued, have a financial incentive to forecast impending disasters. Bad news sells papers. Unfortunately though, the certainty of being obliterated in an instant because Leonid Brezhnev and Richard Nixon finally got fed-up with each other was also being promoted in the classrooms of our schools.
I can still remember Humanities lessons in which we were earnestly instructed on how to build nuclear fallout shelters in our backyards (no great hardship for 13 year old boys I might add). We were taught a shorthand vocabulary of atomic annihilation: MAD (Mutually Assured Destruction), ICBM (Intercontinental Ballistic Missile), RAD (Radiation Absorption Dose).
In Science, we learned the difference between fallout and yield. In English, we were fed a diet of novels about the doomsday scenario and dystopian movies depicting life in a nuclear winter. I still have a cartoon given to me by a teacher which shows a sleepy President Reagan waking up in the White House. His finger hovers uncertainly over two buttons above the bedside table – one labelled LUNCH, the other, LAUNCH.
Mushroom clouds over Auckland all seems a little bit silly now. However, the fact remains that my generation grew up with a fair degree of fatalism that the end of the world really was nigh. I look back now and wonder how that affected our subsequent outlook on life? Are we more cautious, less committing, perhaps even cynical and blind to some of the joys of life as a result of being raised in a climate of such pessimism?
My introspection might not really matter, were it not for the fact that mine was not the only generation to have been educated against a backdrop of global fear. Throughout the past four decades, different generations of young people have grown up with a succession of fear-inducing global threats. We have taught them variously they were all going to die from either HIV/AIDS, SARs, Ebola, Mad Cow Disease, Zika, the Millennium Virus, ozone depletion, global financial crashes, climate change, or terrorism. Lately it seems we have come full circle, with Donald Trump and Kim Jong-un replacing Brezhnev and Nixon in rattling the nuclear sabres.
I do not mean to be flippant; each of these crises undoubtedly held the potential for disaster. But my concern is the effect of all this doom-saying has on impressionable young minds. Expectation is a powerful force and our children learn to expect what the adults in their lives expect. If we constantly portray the world as fragile, frightening and ultimately doomed, what impact does this have on their outlook and state of mental health?
Last Updated: 08/05/2017 11:36:42
Thirty years in this job and I have yet to meet the perfect parent. I mean no disrespect, for I place myself high on the list of the slightly bemused and mildly inept. Those of us who thought raising a child would be more like walking the dogs than herding the cats. Parenting is no easy task, which is why I usually resist any temptation to lecture others on how to do it right.
Advice abounds in other places of course. Pop psychology pieces in magazines. Self-help books, ironically positioned on the Mental Health shelves of the Library. Websites that pop up when the search words “child rearing” and “Oh my God what have we created?” are used. Most commit many column inches to describing the problems, far fewer to workable solutions.
Still, we are drawn in by desperate hope. That and alliteration, which seems to be important. “Taming Toddler Tantrums with Tickles” and “Top Tips To Train Turbulent Teens.”
Lists are quite seductive too. “Eight Things Not To Say to Your Teenage Daughter” or “Five Signs That Your Child Is Anxious.” In my experience, anything I said to my teenage daughter provoked anxiety, so perhaps they are the same list.
The problem with this generic advice is that it ignores the fact that the challenges of parenting are highly idiosyncratic. Being a parent is like living with your own personalised carnival sideshow. Children can be like a cross between the hall of mirrors, which distorts every good thing you thought about yourself and amplifies your failings, and the talking scales, which delight in broadcasting the aforementioned failings to all who will listen. All mounted on a rollercoaster that won’t stop, no matter how loud you scream.
All of which, quite naturally, makes us receptive to advice about how to do this parenting stuff right. Having grown up vowing that we would never parent as badly as our own completely unreasonable mother and embarrassing father, we now wish that we could do it half as well as they did. No wonder we are susceptible to the “Six Strategies to Save Sanity and Survive School-age Psychopaths.”
Hence, why I don’t proclaim to know about perfect parenting and don’t forward the banal articles or simplistic lists that flood my inbox. However, let me now bend my rule. I am moved to share the following short clip with you because it represents a growing reality for us as educators and as parents. It also proposes solutions that don’t need elaboration from me. The only thing I would say is that if, at the end, you think was is solely about your child’s behaviour, you should watch it again.
Click here for the Headmaster's Video Recommendation
Last Updated: 17/01/2017 11:12:40
Mothers bring children into the world, fathers get to give them away apparently. In my case, I walked a Russian Doll down the aisle over the Christmas break. By which I don’t mean a gorgeous model from Moscow (although she was every bit as beautiful). I mean that as we processed towards the altar, I had a whole cluster of people on my arm. Other guests saw the sole friend or family member that they have come to know. But I didn’t just escort the confident and capable young woman that my daughter is today. Nested inside her were all the versions that I have witnessed since the day she was born.
The chortling baby, the mischievous toddler, the tomboy, the belle of the Ball; all still there, walking beside me. So too the stroppy adolescent, the rebellious teen (fortunately quite deeply buried now). Daddy’s girl, who would tromp along beside me in over-sized Wellies collecting pine cones, refusing to admit she was tired. And more recently, the courageous recipient of a gruelling medical procedure, treatment for a wicked disease. Yes, they were distinct stages of her life so far, but to me they were indistinguishable from the new bride that others saw that day. If I am guilty of worrying about her as if she was still a child it is because, in my eyes, that version of her remains within.
Our children will grow to be adults, where others will take them as they find them, at whichever stage their lives intersect. Those who come to know them well, colleagues, friends and partners, may see transformations as their character or circumstances change. But only a parent knows all of the secret layers within. Like the matryoshka, the nested Russian dolls, your child will always contain the countless smaller, earlier versions of themselves.
Not surprisingly, most of the versions parents remember existed during childhood, when they were in our daily care. When the decisions we made; schools, lifestyles, boundaries, expectations, all influenced their early personas. Some versions were cute, some excruciating. No wonder teens can’t wait to get away from us, knowing the awkward phases we’ve witnessed (and our propensity to recall them at the most embarrassing moments). At least when a child leaves home they can craft their own completely independent versions of themselves in private.
We are prone to seeing children as a work in progress. To a degree, that’s what they are. Every challenging phase passes, becoming just another inner layer of the adult they eventually become. So too does every joyful age remain enshrined inside them, a font of later happiness and success. Reason enough to make our early influence in their young lives count. To affirm the triumphs, challenge the wayward steps.
But take it from the father-of-the-bride, your child will be many people in your life and each stage should be savoured in its own right. Pre-Prep, Prep or Senior years, wherever your child is in the School at present they are, right now, a complete version of themselves. A version that will endure for the rest of their lives. Enjoy it for what it is. Then one day, when they are independent and thriving in the world, you will find a moment to stop and unpack the phases of their life thus far and marvel at how perfectly they all fit. Be warned though, just like peeling back the layers of an onion, it can bring a tear to the eye.
Dear Father Christmas
Last Updated: 09/12/2016 14:54:47
Dear Father Christmas
It’s been a while, I know. Coming on for 45 years in fact, since I last wrote to you. Nothing personal, I never stopped believing in you. It may have had something to do with your failure to deliver the Star Wars Space Hopper in 1971, but I’m over that now. Mostly.
I’m writing now with my Christmas wishes for 2016, although I realise that you may be extra busy this year. The demand for extra boxes of tissues in America will be a burden and Brexit could make importing a sleigh full of toys to the UK more challenging. Still, I would like to ask for the following:
450 packets of Plasticine
Do they still make Plasticine? I remember it as the stocking-filler to which we returned once the batteries in other toys ran flat. I still recall how the petroleum smell seeped into our fingers. The way the rainbow colours of the sausage-strands bled into each other as we spent countless hours giving shape to our imaginings. Simply, it was a gift which encouraged expression. Allowed us to give shape to our thoughts and model how we saw our world. So this Christmas, please give a block of Plasticine to every junior pupil at Bromsgrove. Help them discover the capacity for creativity which resides in each of them (and that play doesn't always require a screen).
I'd like to ask for a mirror for every adolescent at Bromsgrove, but not the normal bathroom variety. I need you to find special mirrors which only reflect truth and block out insecurities or social stereotypes. Mirrors which show teenage girls their true beauty; mirrors which offer boys an image of themselves as confident young men. Could you also wrap up some of those multi-faceted mirrors, like the sort you see in fairground attractions, which reflect back a thousand impressions of the viewer? Then let our teenagers stand before a kaleidoscope of themselves, understanding the infinite possibilities of who they might become.
I'm going to let you chose individual gifts for our senior pupils. The only rule is that they can't be cash, vouchers, IOU's or promises. Give each of them something real, something personal. I worry daily that we are letting our children grow up too fast in this high-paced world. No matter how quick they are to claim their independence, inside every staunch young adult who professes to be disinterested in Christmas remains the child who once knew the joy of unwrapping a gift chosen personally for them. So could you arrange at least one present for each senior that reacquaints them with the excited anticipation of being a kid on Christmas Day?
Sounds expensive I know, but don't worry, none of them actually need to work. In fact, they must all have stopped or be running slow. I'd like you to deliver one to every Bromsgrove parent, as sneakily as you can, so that as the Christmas holiday unfolds they lose track of time and truly relax with their children. If you can't find enough broken watches, a few smartphones that can't connect to the work server or some email software that freezes after 6:00pm would suffice.
Last order, one for each colleague at Bromsgrove. They don't have to be big ladders. Just high enough for a teacher to climb above the daily mountain of teaching/coaching/tutoring/mentoring/counselling/marking/planning to see how much they achieve every day. Just high enough for them to glimpse the extent of their influence as it radiates out beyond the Bromsgrove gates.
Maybe you should leave those gifts in their classrooms, so that every now and then they can look out over the heads of those seated immediately in front of them and survey, ranging across the years, the countless other young people to whom they have given guidance, encouragement and self-confidence.
Likewise, I'd like all of our support staff to get a loftier view of how greatly their own dedication and loyalty to the School affects us all for the better. Help elevate every Bromsgrove staff member this Christmas, that they might see the true impact of their vocation.
And as for me? The truth is, I don't really want for much this year. The last echoes of the Chapel choir. A glass of mulled wine and a Holroyd Howe mince pie will do nicely. I’ll leave some out for you.
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