Kumoff it: my son is top of his class in maths. So why have I turned to Kumon?

When Jonah was a toddler, I suspected he was a genius. I know.We all do it. It turned out he was Asperger’s. He always has and still does have a gift for numbers, a gift his sister is now, also demonstrating. It stands to reason. Tom is a banker and works with numbers all day, and I, although I found it my toughest subject at school, always was in the top set. Perhaps that’s why it panics me so much. I found it hard to keep up – patchy teaching left me floundering and I gave it up gratefully after GCSE, scraping a B (the only one of ten that was not A or above). Now, I pretend ignorance, or worse, dyscalculia whenever anyone asks me to split a bill – like my genuine dyspraxia that has me floundering if anyone asks me for directions, I go into mind numbing panic where numbers are concerned. It’s not that I can’t do it. It’s that I won’t. Years of feeling anxious about maths lessons has caused a psychological block.

So when I got a Kumon leaflet through the door (THERE’S A SIGN THAT SAYS NO JUNK MAIL, MR POSTMAN) offering an opportunity not just for my children, but also for me – currently not working and looking for opportunities- I thought I’d look into the tutoring programme for my kids, but also as a franchise option for myself. I went along to a few meetings, firstly with Sandesh, our local tutor who runs sessions from a draft church hall up the road; and at the rather more slickly run meeting at a local hotel for people interested in becoming Kumon tutors – they run English programmes – being my speciality –  as well as maths.

Sandesh is a pleasant, softly spoken man who talked me through the maths programme, without the hard sell, and seemed convinced by its merits, though when I asked him about life as a franchisee, he noted one or two frustrations, but seemed positive overall. I signed up my kids for an assessment, more as a way of finding out for myself how they are doing in maths than with any real conviction about putting them on the programme.

Kumon,  Sandesh explains, needs a real commitment from parents, with worksheets to be done each and every day – which, for my homework shy kids,  seems like a barrier before we even begin. He also explains that they begin right back at the beginning, to catch any holes. It is, he enthuses, not just about learning maths, but also about learning to work independently, instilling good posture, holding the pencil correctly, learning to focus. This feels like a good idea, but I’ve no idea how Jonah, who has become rather smug about his maths abilities, will take to this back to basics approach. I find out soon enough.

“I DON’T WANT TO DO IT,” he resolves, the instant I mention it. Many of his classmates at school have got tutors, after two years of school chaos, where supply teachers have come and gone and results at KS2 and Year six SATs have plummeted. I, convinced that the school system has much less of a role to play than the government likes to believe, have, till now, been holding my nerve. He says I’m crazy, that he’s top of the class, and anyway, he doesn’t want to do any homework. “We’re doing it”, I answer back. I’ve not signed you up to anything but the assessment. Let’s see how you get on.”

Under duress, on the Friday just before half-term,  Jonah (and with far more good grace, Ava) take the test. What it reveals is interesting.Jonah whizzes through the first half of a paper that made me freeze after the addition section, seemingly answering long multiplication and division with ease. Ava, likewise, outstrips my casual maths with confidence. She is a smart cookie, he nods approvingly at Ava, who has had far less academic chaos in her three years at primary. But when Sandesh talks me through Jonah’s’ paper, he notes several things – he’s using his fingers, and using coping devices like carrying numbers – so far, so normal, according to me, but rather undermining my conviction of  Jonah’s innate numerical genius. The little quiet one, it seems, has hidden talent. Jonah, on the other hand, leaves despondent. On the way home, he says, with genuine sadness, “I wish I was good at cool things. I don’t want to be good a not cool things anymore.” I suddenly feel his pain, but by then, we;ve already made an appointment to start thier two week free trial.

Perhaps it’s through some latent guilt that I’ve not being paying full attention these past few years, given I was working and exhausted. Perhaps it’s through fear of knowing that the teaching has not been up to par in his class at school. Perhaps it’s that I’ve got more time on my hands these days to worry about. Perhaps it’s my own fear of maths, and the hope I might relearn some skills by osmosis. But something about Sandesh’s conviction in the Kumon method reassured me, despite the £50 odd quid a month price tag, and Jonah’s continued reluctance to continue. Ava, on the other hand, riding the crest of her success and the fact that they’d be starting at the same level, despite the two and three quarter year age gap, was much more enthusiastic. I began a campaign to try and convince Jonah it was a good idea, citing my own fear of maths, recent unemployment, and the relative higher wage association between science subjects, most of which require maths. None of it worked.

“I DON’T CARE about getting a job” (to be fair, he is only ten), “and if anything ALL THIS IS STRESSING ME OUT SO MUCH, MY MATHS AT SCHOOL HAS got WORSE.” This continued all the way to school on the day the pair of them were due to start their first session. It had me seriously questioning  a) whether I was doing the right thing and b) why I’d ever become a mother in the first place. Like a pussy, I promised fast food afterwards, but he wouldn’t budge.

We arrived at session early,through gritted teeth, and Sandesh’s calm authority cowed him. Off they went into the closed classroom – no parents allowed, while I waited outside witha motley selection of mums who were rather more representeative of gritty Clapton than leafy Victoria Park . Ten minutes later, Jonah returned with 100 % scrawled on a paper full of simple (and I mean basic) addition. He looked simultaneously pleased with himself and confused at how easy it had been. “I told you’d be starting simple,” I said, and then Jonah did a most uncharacteristic thing. He apologised. “I’m a sorry mum,” he said, “about this morning.”

“Would you like to carry on,” I asked, and he shyly nodded. We went for Mcdonald’s and I told him we would not be doing this every week. He said he understood. What wonder Sandesh worked in that classroom, I don’t know, but this morning, before school, Jonah, of his own volition, started work on one of the timed papers he had been set for his week’s homework: ten sheets of simple addition. He finished the first in 7 minutes, with one answer, which I marked in the traditional Japanese way Sandesh taught me, out of maybe 100 easy-peasy sums, may of which repeat several times, wrong. Sandesh told Jonah he was not to try and beat the clock. It was an easy way to learn an important lesson.

Ava, on the other hand, has not been so immediately keen. She was told, rather sternly, by Sandesh, that she needed to improve her focus: the same paper which, in class, had taken Jonah eight minutestook Ava 14. It remains to be seen how she will cope with having an (albeit easy) paper to do each and every evening, and learning as much from her mistakes as from her sucesses. And, aged seven, it might be more of a struggle for her to cope with regular homework, which I’ve always been grateful Jonah was not given from school at that age. Trying to get him to do anything but Minecraft is like pulling teeth, especially before school, which made this morning’s self-motivation all the more remarkable. Perhaps seeing her brother pull away from her skill-wise might motivate her in the same way having Ava snapping at his heels might mtoivate him. But Sandesh was clear that the aim of the programme is to teach kids self-reliance, not competetiveness,  and not to compare themselves to others. But one thing’s for sure, I can see the benefits of this thoroughly un-western approach on my son’s thoroughly western faults.

So, will I be opening a Kumon franchise of my own? Sadly, my own fear of maths has seen me fail to attempt the necessary tests required for a Kumon tutor, who need to be able to teach both English and Maths. But perhaps, following my kids on the Kumon programme, which teaches dedication and practise, little and often, and that starting from scatch can take you further in the long run, will help me grow in maths confidence, as much as it reassures me that what my children are being taught in school has firmer foundations than what I ended up with at the end of it.

Update: two weeks in, and wily papers are taking their toll. Ava has had outright hissy fits and cried over doing it several days, worrying about how long it’s taking her (about half an hour each twenty sided paper. Jonah, who manages them in just under ten, is finding the repetition grinding but has