“I have to tell you,” says my friend, the primary school principal, when he hears that we’ve decided to delay our son’s schooling for a year, “that I think you’re making a terrible mistake”.
This isn’t what I want to hear. I haven’t seen my friend since we asked for his advice on the matter, at least 6 months ago, before duly ignoring it. We’re catching up over a beer, and I was hoping he’d reassure me we’ve done the right thing, or at least pretend not to think otherwise.
Our son turned four in March, meaning he was due to start school next February, and would have been among the youngest in his year. Boys mature later than girls, so plenty of parents of sons born close to the cut-off (April 30 here in Victoria) are choosing to hold them back. They point to Scandinavia as proof that starting school later can produce well-balanced human beings, with perhaps even a penchant for interior design or grippingly dour television dramas.
We each came around to the other’s viewpoint, in synch, and the arguments started again
Yes, this holding back the years makes for a skewed demographic, lanky laggards crowding out kindergartens. But if you can’t beat them join them, right?
It wasn’t an easy decision. We argued.
“Look, the cut-off’s there for a reason. Someone’s got to be the youngest. He’ll rise to the challenge.”
“He’s not going to be ready, no way. He’ll struggle, he’ll be miserable, we can’t do this to him when we can choose not to. And what did I tell you about leaving your old contact lenses stuck to the bathroom sink?”
We each came around to the other’s viewpoint, in synch, and the arguments started again.
The education industry seems divided on the issue, which didn’t help us reach an agreement. While the Australian Principals’ Association wants to standardise the school starting age across the nation, and recommends five-and-a-half as an ideal (making our son’s not quite five feel wide of the mark), both state and education departments make decent arguments for going with their flow, submitting to the system.
I noticed how most of them were off playing superheroes together, while he played alone, still being a train
He’s a great kid (well I would say that, wouldn’t I?), but not so great at following instructions (“what’s in it for me?” his expression seems to ask, before he refocuses his attention on the contents of his nose), sitting still or holding a pen. His moods swing from vacant reverie to frenzied excitement, with little in between, and he still views most of his peers with suspicion and fearful wonder. There is, though, the odd exception to whom he attaches himself like a limpet, almost smothering them in the ardor of his hugs, accompanied by guttural declarations of love.
The pre-school he started at this year included a few boys who were five before he turned four. One afternoon in March I watched as a couple of them pushed him out of the way in the queue for the slide. Later I noticed how most of them were off playing superheroes together, while he played alone, still being a train.
I told my partner about it later, and that’s when we made up our minds.
“I really think you’ll come to regret this,” mutters my friend, the principal, who has clearly had it up to here with over-protective parents messing with his year groupings.
Giving him this extra year of childhood freedom is the best thing we could be doing for him
It’s too late now, of course. He’s been back with the three-to-four year-olds for half a year now, apparently happier, but what do we know?
He occasionally makes plaintive inquiries after his former classmates that make me wonder all over again whether we’ve done the right thing.
“He’s big for his age, isn’t he?” my friend, the principal, with all of his experience and his wisdom, goes on. He is, he is. What have we done? “What if no one wants to play with him in prep, you know, because of his size?”
I want to believe it’s no big deal anyway, that there’s no danger the boy will resent us when he realises he’s turning 18 with nearly all of year 12 to get through, that he’s not going to be bored and disruptive during the prep year he’s taking too late, that giving him this extra year of childhood freedom is the best thing we could be doing for him, that our instincts are true, that all you need is love.
My friend, the principal, reads terror in my face and strikes a conciliatory note.
“Anyway,” he says, frowning only slightly into his beer, “I’m sure it will all work out fine.”
Ian Rose is a Melbourne-based writer.
