British Nursery School - Pass. SA Mum - Epic Fail

23.  Another massive learning curve since leaving the sunny shores of our homeland has been getting to grips with the schooling system in the UK. Further to my education in peanuts and sun cream, there’s apparently a whole lot more to learn. And not just for my son it appears. He’s doing fine. It’s his standard grade mum who may need some extra lessons.

Since beginning nursery school in the year before Grade R, my son’s school bag bulges daily with new additions. Not with jerseys or raincoats as you’d think. Or rocks, makeshift homes for shongololos or sticks – as were the ubiquitous little treasures I’d discover back home in South Africa. Not quite. Not here. Here the oke comes home each day with a little more homework. I’m no stranger to a homework book. I'm not a complete cretin. Only difference is that I'm used to the homework book for a four year old with a little apologetic note from his teacher on how he was hit in the head by a rock. (True story. No stitches.) Or that he spent time in the grow-good chair because he clobbered the boy who threw the rock. (Sad, but true story.) Or that he had an accident in his jocks and the soiled clothing has been quarantined in the plastic Pick ‘n Pay packet in his bag. (Rank true story.) I like the homework books where there’s no actual homework. It’s more like housework. And I can deal with housework. This homework thing. Not so much. I simply don’t think I’m qualified.

My son has been issued with a plastic chart that details sounds, phonetics, letters, pictures, vowels and consonants. It’s called a Vowel Grapheme Chart. I hate the bloody thing. He’s been told to protect it though because he’s upset if I use it as a coaster for my teacup or his little sister tries to slide on it on her bum along the kitchen floor. I’m not really sure what do it with it this chart. So we look at the pictures. I tried sticking it in his room next to the Thomas the Tank Engine poster, but the school asked for it back. Then there’s what’s called a Woodland Pack with shapes, letters, numbers and a handwriting kit. It’s proper. And I’m clueless. Like seriously clueless. My son has to teach me what to do with his charts and graphs. He’s four. I’m significantly older. And I have a degree in English. I should be able to do this. It should be piss easy. Except it’s not. It’s hectic. Everyday after school, I eye out his bag anxiously wondering what’s in his homework book. It taunts me. Eventually like a plaster where the only way is a clean rip, I open his book and read what the day’s exercise is. And like most things with motherhood, I pretend I know what I’m doing. I don’t want my son to know that his pre-school homework terrifies me. He should only be able to recognise my shortcomings when it comes to geometry or physics in post Matric. I shouldn't disillusion him now. It's too early. I should have at least another decade. Moms are supposed to be superheroes. They conquer all the bad stuff. They make you laugh. They’re fun. They give you nice food. They cuddle. They smell nice. They’re not supposed to be too thick to work out your Vowel Grapheme Chart. It’s just not how nature intended. In my opinion, nature doesn’t intend for your four year old child to be worrying about the difference between a curly c and a kicking k. But then that’s just me. I can’t really comment though, my record is appalling. Last week I received a text message from the school to inform me that my son has the inappropriate attire for Physical Education (we just called it PE). Could I please furnish him with school-approved plimsolls at my earliest convenience. Plimsolls? I had to google plimsolls. And they’re those tennis takkies that we wore in the 80s. Why couldn’t they just say that? My IQ dropped another 5 points below my Shame Q.

On the day before he’s due to go back to school from half-term break, I decided to clear out the poor desiccated snails in his bag. I’d already seen the homework due for the holiday. We’d already plodded my way through it. Ollie taught me how to sound out his letters and we learnt how to use those to create words. What I hadn’t seen was an A4 piece of paper I'd overlooked hiding between his library book and his ruddy Vowel Grapheme Chart. Was it another newsletter? Another reminder about the emergency procedure protocol? No it wasn’t. It was my worst nightmare. A school project. With research and stuff. And you have to hand it in. Something actual. On paper. And there’s a deadline. I nearly had to breathe into a paper bag. Can I find a job before the deadline? Not likely. It’s in three weeks. And more to the point, who’s going to hire someone who battles to do homework with a four year old? Can I pay someone to do it with my son? That just seems wrong. And people will know. And those people will judge.

Later that evening, while he was in the bath, in what I assumed was a casual tone (but was obviously laced with latent panic and hysteria)... I mentioned the project to my 4 year old. He looked knowingly at me with his beautiful blue eyes, shrugged his slight little shoulders and said: “Oh yah that. I know about that. It’ll be fine Mom. Don’t stress. It’s not hard. We’ll do it together.”

Just three short months ago, I was pleading with my boy to get up off the floor of the supermarket after he insisted on padding around pretending to be a dog. He spent the equivalent of three days in the naughty corner after he smeared dry cement on the bonnet of our car and used the running hosepipe to create ‘art’. I won't even tell you what damage he wreaked to the pool pump cover. Now, he’s teaching his mother how to do his pre-school homework and reassuring me that we can do his research project. What does this say about him? He’s growing up. He’s learning. He’s probably realising that his Mom is actually clever clueless. What does this say about me? I really am more than a little bit stupid. Maybe it’s the wine? Does wine make you stupid? And the biggest learning to date: If this is pre-school English? How in the hell am I going to handle Maths? #Dogshow #Mum-who-can't-cope