A case for Home Schooling

September has always been my favourite month. In Australia it is Spring and as the days grow longer and warmer and the air fills with the sweet and sometimes overwhelming scent of jasmine in bloom the anticipation of a long and sultry summer has not yet robbed one of the expectant joy that comes with breaking out the shorts and sunhats.

In England September holds still longish evenings of fading light, crisp mornings and balmy days. The summer may have been oppressively hot or perhaps as is more often the case, leaden and grey, or even, let's be honest, wet and cold, but a mild and sunny September is almost a guarantee. The sky is blue and cloudless, the air clean and pollen-free, the grass lush and green. The city is full of relaxed, tanned people returning with smiley faces from their long vacations in warmer climes, clad in crisp, white trousers and strappy sandals, sporting fresh haircuts, as if it they were still in Sardinia or Majorca.

September is also the beginning of the new academic year with all the attendant excitement and flurry of activity that it involves. Everyone seems hopeful and optimistic. The sleep-ins and the long days without obligation have worked their magic and the eager feet skip happily back to the school yard, faces glowing and fresh and rested.

And the children don't seem to mind turning up either.

The youngest of the Off-Spring joined his brothers in big-boy real school today. The uniform of tie, cap, long trousers and blazer suited him very well. Like a business man though, after a rough day at the office, he was quick to remove the tie once the school gate was out of sight this afternoon, his cap and blazer flung into my waiting arms. I almost expected him to ask for a beer, so like a mini-man did he look.

When I was a child I recall my elder brother lamenting the long years of education that children face. I did not really understand his regret about the situation. I always loved school and never imagined being anywhere else between the ages of 5 and 17 - or indeed 22. Yet, my middle son proposed that he stay home for the rest of the year, despite a good first day back, on the grounds that I could teach him all he would need to know. I knew better than to answer him at any length...

Nevertheless, as one gears up for the early wake ups, the routine, the homework, the extra-curricular activities and the endless round of party invitations, one does feel a pang for the heady freedom of those long summer days in the garden with nowhere to go and nothing to do but explore, play, read and be free. Yet we would hardly appreciate it if it were always summer.

Our communal garden is seeing the summer out with a talent show this weekend.

In theory a talent show is a wonderful idea. We all beamed with joy and eagerness at the thought.

But as the day looms the prospect is now more akin to a fancy dress party with an exam at the end which one is not prepared for culminating in one of those recurring dreams when one has to go on stage not knowing the act one is about to perform, naked. The issue is not that I am scared of performing - indeed - followers will be well aware by now that I love the spotlight. No, the problem is my parlous lack of talent in all areas capable of lending themselves to public performance.

Which is not to say I cannot hold a tune. And I am a rather dab hand at all things Wilde and Shaw, but the wide age ranges of the audience, the wide parameters of what talent may mean for 3 year olds, together with a self-imposed standard that at all costs I must be funny, leaves me in a veritable quandary.

So while the Off-Spring rehearse the Macarena, turning cartwheels and telling knock-knock jokes interspersed with a tuneful medley of top 40 pop tunes featuring Beyonce, Black Eyed Pees and Justin Bieber, I am racking my brains for an original take on my many talents.

A debate perhaps? Topic - That a communal garden brings out the best in everyone! I could prevail on Mr Springgirl to argue the affirmative.

A brief demo of Master Chef as interpreted in my kitchen when feeding a lacto-vegan, a carnivore, a picky rabbit and a lover of all things spicy and fiery?

A rendition of our favourite hymns? The soundtrack to a "Sound of Music" or the "King and I" performed in my trumpet imitating voice?

A reading from one of my favourite books - starring Winnie the Pooh of course!

An expose of my push-ups, warrior 2 pose and plank?

An impression of someone in the garden?

Hamlet's To Be or Not To Be - reworked of course, for the modern multi-age audience - perhaps a "To Perform or not to Perform" - or an "Ode to Talent"...

The mind boggles at the options.

I will be buying wine, a soft cushion, a warm shawl and a waterproof jacket to prepare for my time in the audience. If one thing is clear, from my subtle questions in the garden this week, it is that everyone has a talent to showcase. From dancing to acting, magic tricks to belching, gymnastics and potty juggling, public speaking and bubble blowing, heckling and feats of tree climbing, tennis serving and tennis net hurdling.

I woke last night with a the kernal of an idea evaporating from my unconscious dream like thoughts. It eludes me still; a glimmer of a spark of inspiration, not quite in my peripheral vision. More like a long forgotten punch line suggesting itself in a moment of deja-vu.

All of which is to say this:

First class honours in law, a history degree, a long career as a debater, a masters degree, a long track record in professional services and a business and a book to my name and I still have less discernible talent than the black cat from Number 2. So the idea of skipping a formal education starts to resonate with me now.

Most of the skills the Off-Spring use and take the most pleasure and pride in are those developed at home or away from the school house - tennis, swimming, dancing, singing, running, arguing, negotiating, manipulating...

Where did all my book-learning really take me?

Hold on - I just had a thought. Would Mr Springgirl play the part of the host of Mastermind and quiz me on my pet topic? Parenting while dealing with crazy women, high-spirited kids, absent (working abroad) husbands and thwarted aspirations to write best-selling novels?

For example - name the four biggest impediments to a good night's sleep?
Feeding babies, watching too much tv, vomiting kids and pregnancy.

Is it boring? Obvious? Unfunny?

Maybe I could do an impression of a famous actress being interviewed for her views of juggling career and family, shedding light on how to choose really weird and unkind babynames, how to eat only superfoods shipped in from the Equator after discovering lovably cute orphans from similar climes to adopt, while grappling with the potency of fame and recognition during those trying months of trying to lose the baby pounds with only three personal trainers and a private chef to help. All the while extolling the virtues of home schooling.

Now I am on to something. Best of all it is good clean family fun and may break up the juggling and magic tricks nicely.

Which leads me to reconsider the whole home schooling question from a new angle.

Depending on the calibre of resident, the quality of interaction and the preparedness to throw oneself into things, together with access to the internet, living on a communal garden can conceivably offer all one needs in terms of education.

Enough of the school fees and schedules. Live on a garden square with lots of children and nice friendly families!

All of the ancient disciplines are on offer in our garden.

Rhetoric, logic, grammar, citizenship, arithmetic, philosophy, gymnastics, wrestling.

Fine arts and sports are a speciality - sand sculpting, harmony and tune holding, gate swinging, gravel kicking, bike and scooter riding, football (if the anti-football lady is not home), basic toileting - of the behind a tree and potty variety, gardening and tennis court marking, ball throwing, cricket, skipping, hopping and following the leader, freezing, catching, hiding and seeking and tree climbing, bug catching and identifying, animal husbandry (at least cat, snail, bird, fox and squirrel), airplane identification and jumping from benches, to name but a few.

And social skills get plenty of attention as well - sharing, negotiating, appropriate use of swear words, manners and diction, getting along with all sorts, mucking in and tidying up after oneself.

Safety is not neglected either. Strangers are still strangers even if they share the space. A stray cigarette lighter is not a toy. Gravel rash hurts. Put down the stick. Get out of the shrubbery unless you want to be covered in insect bites tomorrow.

I do think that the Off-Spring have learnt more in the past 6 weeks in the garden than in the whole previous year at school.

But alas, the real world does exist outside the little commune and no one stays under 10 forever...

Still, it puts the whole holiday camp industry into perspective. And - I think I may have an act for the Show after all!

Grounded

It has been a strange few days. All flights in and out of the UK are grounded due to a cloud of volcanic ash high above Europe that may damage aeroplane engines and windscreens. There is talk that the Royal Navy may be drafted to assist stranded UK travellers needing to return to the UK. All the romance of Dunkirk, the age of steam, land and sea travel... If only we had gone abroad this Easter.

Aside from the sheer novelty of not seeing or hearing a plane in its usual place in the sky over south-west London for four days, we are being spoilt by a burst of clement, clear and warm weather. The communal garden that we call ours was teeming with residents today. The obligatory shirts off (so delightfully European) temperatures were to be savoured. As was the wafting aroma of burning sausages, spilt wine, cut grass and fresh blossoming flowers. On days like these one remembers why one moved to London. The quiet of the skies only enhanced the impression that one was luxuriating on a village green rather than an urban playground 58 seconds walk from the busiest westbound artery to the now deserted Heathrow and beyond.

The communal garden is a snapshot of modern life. A melange, if you will. Young couples hand in hand over the Sunday paper, smile dreamily at their own reflections in each other's sunglasses. Still new parents enjoy the first tentative steps of the soon to be toddler; vigilant, proud and almost as dreamy as those news hungry young lovers. The older folk bring their own chairs - the park benches being too hard and upright - books and cups of tea. Clusters of older children, finding a "homey" and playing "It" (or "catch"), chase and cycle and search energetically for cats and squirrels to torment. The weary but oh so relaxed working parents soak up the sun before another week underground and inside, ignoring the children because for once they can.

The children want for nothing - playmates, food, freedom... drama, enmity and turf battles.

And so in the midst of this spectacle, I, semi-recumbent reader of Lee Child thriller, took it upon myself to broker peace between this Lord of the Rings-esque ensemble of players. I have a new calling - my son told me afterwards that I should consider working full-time as a "Negotiator" (his words) as I managed to repair some broken hearts at the sandbox, secure guarantees of forgiveness and sharing and quell the growing rivalry over the spoils of communal garden conflict. Needless to say these skills have been honed in my own home through much of my life. It is my dream that my son will emulate the style and aplomb at the sandpit in solving his own conflicts going forward. It seems to be the case that while he has been exposed to (subject to) my style all his life, he is now seeing how successful it can be in achieving a happy resolution. I doubt it is novel. While I know mine is a different approach to that of some teachers in our short and sometimes chequered schooling history, (another post will be needed to do justice to the myriad modern means of tacitly encouraging persistent bullying in the interests of building resilience), I would have thought most mothers could sort out the old sandpit shenanigans fairly smartly.

So forgive me if I state the obvious - blogs do sometimes stray into that arena I believe - but inevitably my thoughts turn to sharing these strategies for conflict resolution - not because I hold any key, but because my son perceives that I do!

Could I pen a handy guide to managing conflict among the under 10s. What do I really know? What works? I hasten to add that I am only dealing with extra-familiar conflict. In terms of minding my own house, I am open to suggestions. The usual threats to call the babysitting agency, suspend some perceived treat or to remove the guilty party(s) from the equation, or object of conflicting desire to the bin or charity shop, are ceasing to generate the fast and certain results they once did.

But enough dirty laundry. At least at home it is only me being driven to distraction. In public the risk to unsuspecting, though not always innocent bystanders is such that it is imperative that I model or instil some reasonable mediation techniques as often as I can. Maybe the Off-Spring can learn from these situations to resolve their issues not only with neighbours and friends, but also each other.

Or perhaps by definition siblings cannot apply that learning at home. I suppose that there is some consolation in the fact that kids seem to split upon family lines when fighting outside the home. They must love each other after all...

Here goes. The Negotiator's tips to sorting out the garden/playground/street battles of the chattering middle classes under 10's (ie where there are no knives, swear words or gang issues in the mix):

(My recently silenced inner voices are moaning now. Not another bloody list, Springgirl!)

1. Never take sides.
2. Bring all factions together in one place - face to face. This avoids the name calling, disingenuous blame laying and face-losing tears that can occur if the parties are separate.
3. Make sweeping statements about life being too short for all this animosity. Chances are they will lose the will to fight back as their little brains stew over what animosity means. Also the whole "life is short" notion seems to be very effective with this age group as they grapple with the concepts of death, hell, ghosts and retribution on a daily basis.
4.Threaten those under your control/guardianship with time out indoors if they cannot bring a spirit of reconciliation to the sandpit. The recent memory of grey wintry days stuck inside with nothing but fights with their siblings to break up the tedium will ensure compliance. For those not under your control this suggests a modicum of authority that their parents, sipping Verdelho on the other side of the garden, may lack at that moment.
5.Seek no information as to the source of the problem or conflict. Keep above the fray and thus keep them focussed on the prize - a long summer of fun outdoors.
6. Ask each child for their personal buy-in to the notion of moving forward with kindness towards each other. Like an entente, when one comes in, they all capitulate.
7. Praise them for their sensible and mature rapprochement.

I am sure I can make this work in other contexts. I hasten to add that this works where there are multiple protagonists, strangers with whom one has yet to lose credibility and with small girls who heretofore have managed to be mean and nasty under the radar and thus are already disarmed by the fact one has approached them in the first place. The above 7 point plan seems not to work in the sanctity of the family home among one's own children. In that context the tears, obfuscation and name calling barely stops long enough to allow any of the negotiation/mediation to really begin.

Inner voice - is there some learning for us there, Springgirl?

Let's hope all of the weary travellers for whom entrance or egress from Europe is important soon manage to make or complete their journeys in the coming days.  Nothing worse than being grounded.