Sorry, but I’ve got better things to do than my daughter’s homework. And so does she

I rather goofed up today. I received a letter home from school: the usual gubbins about projects and topics and PE kits. But just as I was glazing over, I was caught by a line about a review of the school’s homework policy, which rather struck the fear of bejeebus into me.

We’ve been really lucky so far – or lazy, depending on your view on homework. But my view is that if they’re too young to do it by themselves, they are too young to do it. And my kids’ school is pretty relaxed as they go – no uniform, teachers are on first name terms with kids – no archaic need to stick their hand up and call “Mi-iss” here. And up until now, no homework.

I mean, when Jonah, who’s eight was in year three, he got some surprisingly, and increasingly tough spellings. But all of a sudden, there’s a new diktat from on high and now they’ve both got projects to complete, with long-term deadlines, which require beyond-their-skill level computer assistance. It all seems like a terrible faff, and to be honest, I just haven’t got the time.

I’ve always got a bit stressy about deadlines. It’s what made me such a good, toe-the-line student back when I was at school. I could never relax until I’d got all my homework done, and consequently, I was a model student, but all that goody two shoe-ness hasn’t exactly translated into mega career success – in no small part due to putting kids, literally before my career – I was 24 was I had my first. But now, with a full-time job that pays okay but, let’s face it, bores me witless, and a hobby, blogging, that I love but I do for nowt, and for which I have less and less time, I’m feeling a bit disillusioned – not to mention jaded. The last thing I need is someone else’s homework to worry about, especially when they’re too small to worry about it on their own.

Obviously, we read to our kids – regular reading is the one thing that has been proven to make the blindest bit of difference to your child’s later academic performance, and I’ve done it all for years. Each Peach Pear Plum, Hilarious renditions of The Hungry Caterpillar complete with puppets, repetitive and yawning drones of Thomas the Tank ad nauseum, Mr Gum (fucking funny), Spydog; the godawful, politically correct first readers that the kids read in reception, painfully slowly to start with, like robots; and right now, my Oscar-worthy performance of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory .

Reading to my kids is just about the only thing I have enough energy for after I’ve crawled into my own pajamas at 7.00pm, except sloshing back a nice glass of red, watching Bake Off or Orange is the New Black, and maybe squeezed out a blog. Supervising actual homework is going to just about finish me off. Sod reading to my kids if I have to bake my noodle on fractions. I also forsee my rag getting well and truly lost.

In any case, there is no evidence to support homework at primary level. My own feeling is that it gives kids arbitrary things to do when they could be pursuing their own interests (like Minecraft – I’ve given up policing it, and J’s built himself a fully automated wonderland, plus YouTube videos explaining how he’s done it) after a hard day of learning.

It’s a fact I’ve trotted out many times, partly to alleviate my parental guilt about being relaxed, by proxy – about my children’s education, and partly it gets on my tits whenever the local posh school mums have a whinge about how much geometry poor little Bathilde is getting and how MUCH they fight about it on weeknights. I find myself thinking, sometimes out loud – that it is setting the poor kid up badly for a lifetime of learning, by making homework a chore too young, and causing parental friction to boot, or worse competition, where kids end up disadvantaged when Mum or Dad don’t pull up their sleeves and do half of it for them. I know the idea is to make parents more engaged with their kids’ education, but honestly, after coming home on the sweat box Central line, I’d rather watch Almost Naked Animals on repeat with my eyes glued open than come up with a travel brochure about Macchu Pichu, like Jonah is having to do. So I’m going to try and abstain. But more probably, I’ve just got myself in a flap about it, but I’ll do it anyway. It’s like GCSEs all over again.

But I also have the additional challenge of having an aspie son. Making him do ANYTHING he doesn’t want to do doesn’t come without a struggle, something that has informed my laissez-faire parental attitude. I am after all a reformed Type A myself. For this, I’m grateful homework is a battle I haven’t had to have so far. Off his own steam, with a little encouragement, some bribery, and lots of zero tolerance for getting out of bed, Jonah has gone on to become an avid reader all on his own. In the summer holidays alone (forgive me this small boast) he read all seven Harry Potter books. It is no small triumph, for an initially reluctant boy. I’m happy for myself and proud of him that he reads so well, but I don’t feel I need to sign his diary every night to let the school know he has done so. It feels a bit nannyish, and, in recovery from my own nerdy swot adolescence, I still feel the need to rebel.

So when Ava, who’s six, brought home this letter instructing parents that we are expected to help out on a half-term craft activity (which I, tried and failed to enjoy as a SAHM, and Ava generally loathes) I rather went off on one: to construct a “healthy plate” out of string, crepe paper and sticky back plastic, to be assessed, no doubt, against the skills of her peers’ parents. Puffed up on the steam of my own indignation, and disillusionment about homework’s value, I wrote a hastily constructed email, barely spellchecked for literacy, rather embarrassingly, to the headmistress to let her know my thoughts on the subject.

Just ten minutes later, an email appeared in my inbox from the school governors. Struck with guilt, and appalled by my haste, I read: The headmistress is taking some time off on sick leave due to grave family issues. Whoops. I do hope my email wasn’t the final straw. But then, in this overstretched world, we’re all feeling spread a bit thin. The very last thing I want to do when I get home from work, cook dinner, clean up, bath, bedtime, and if I’m lucky, answer a passive aggressive text from my sister about why I’m not coming to the fourth kids birthday party in a row next weekend, is write a comment in a book record. Sorry, but I have better things to do. Like have a nervous breakdown, and watch TV and do all the voices in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and rant about it on here.

The thing is, all the homework in the world isn’t going to change the very realistic post-education situation that it’s tough out there; not likely to get any better, and when push comes to shove, even the straightest of As aren’t going to magic a job out of thin air. A good education isn’t any guarantee of success anymore – in fact, being good at school may in actual fact just set you up for a lifetime of disappointment. So, until the kids can pull their own academic socks up  (and let’s face it, if they get into OUR fastidious local academy at secondary, they’ll have no choice but to) – I’m gonna let them run barefoot.

Without being a complete hippy about it (I’m much too much into nice “things” and hot baths for that) I prefer, for the time being, that my kids – and I – don’t have to get stressed out over a slightly pointless homework assignment and just concentrate on having a childhood – while they still can.