Why I let my kids leave school
Too many rules. Don’t touch this. Don’t go there. We’re outta here.
Just when I was about to pack the kids in the car for a little trip to Nimes, Emmanuel Macron’s big roasted peanut head appeared on the telly to announce ‘école obligatoire’. What? But it’s end of term. What’s the point of going back to school for two weeks of neurotic handwashing, social distancing weirdness and heavy breathing mask wearers with twitchy eyes scrutinising potential bacteria breakouts?
This is exactly what I wanted to protect the children against. Plus, the teachers would see how badly our homeschooling is going. Between ourselves, I may have hastily filled in a few gaps in their work books here and there myself. Quite a few, in fact. In the end I gave up on homeschooling. It was bringing out my inner Mean Girl too much.
I’d say things like ‘Do you want to be stupid?’ I know. It’s horrible. What a wicked thing to say to a child! How do teachers do it? Eventually I thought, I don’t care if they can’t read or write or even bloody count, as long as they’re happy and healthy. It’s enough. They are so smart when they’re left to their own devices. The Huck Finn method.
Anyway, back they went on Monday, in their smart shirts and shorts, Joey, my youngest, four, with the saddest face in the world. He has wonderful, kind teachers who mind him so well but he’s still my baby and this lockdown we had fun free from the world of social obligations. Nic, who I now call ‘the father of my children’ if you’re asking, passed by the school later that morning and spotted Sad Face Joe, so he took him out on instinct. I was so happy he escaped. He hasn’t been back since. The headmistress didn’t seem to mind. We’ll deal with it in September. As for my other two rebels, they lasted until Tuesday lunchtime and haven’t returned. Too many rules. Don’t touch this. Don’t go there. Wash your hands again. Keep your distance. Forget it lads. We’re outta here. Let’s go kayaking. In other good news, there are no bises allowed any more. No French kissing for momma. The two fondy greeting is now deemed too dangerous for public health, so I’ve been freed of the social embarrassment of always leaning in for the wrong cheek and bashing faces with people I barely know.
I was buying the boys a little patisserie on Monday by way of marking their first day back at school when I got a serious fit of the giggles in the queue. The woman behind the counter was wearing a very large face mask (fair enough) but none of the customers could understand what she was saying behind the thing. It wasn’t just me and my terrible French for a change.
The 30 degree heat wasn’t helping their patience. Didn’t she feel like ripping the mask off to be understood? To breathe properly? How are we going to go on like this? At least summer is here and the swallows are thrilled to have the sky as their playground and we can still dig our feet in the earth and ponder how we’re going to make peace with our microbe friends. Huck Finn style.