Geography was not the deciding factor when we were picking a school...
Julie Jay: The problem with the school geographically closest to us â a fine school, and a school I always dreamt of sending my kids to â is it is not the one his buddies are going to. Picture: iStock/PA
Before I had children, I always insisted that when it came to choosing a school for your child, every parent should simply go with the one geographically closest to them to
simplify things for themselves. When it came to my turn to choose a big school for Number One, like most big decisions in my life, I put it to the committee.
The problem with the school geographically closest to us â a fine school, and a school I always dreamt of sending my kids to â is it is not the one his buddies are going to. For months now, I have been asking the advice of friends, colleagues, and people standing beside me at bus shelters whether or not they would recommend choosing a school based on where a childâs friends are going. The responses have not been surprising.
Of course, the general consensus has been not to work around a four-year-oldâs social circle, which is about as nebulous as Trumpâs foreign policy.
I have heard all of these arguments ad nauseam and have regurgitated them myself on many occasions â that friendship groups might change, friends might move away or switch schools, and, after all, arenât kids incredibly adept at making new buddies at the drop of a Spidey hat?
Logically, all of these points are valid, but still, in the end, I couldnât do it. I am inherently weak â I cannot be left beside a packet of toffee pops unattended â so I was always going to choose whatever option would make Number One happy in the short term. For now, this means going to school with his crew, even if it means an extra 10-minute drive in the morning.
To reassure myself that I hadnât lost what remains of my marbles, I said Iâd pop in just to make sure there was no portrait of Steve Jobs in the foyer. (I once taught in a school which had a shrine to the man in reception, much like a Catholic school might have a picture of the Sacred Heart.)
And reassuring it most certainly was. Calling into his future school was like stepping into Ms Honeyâs room in but with more rĂ©amhfhocail on the walls and fewer stars and stripes. The original flooring and tiny classrooms would not have been out of place in , save for the interactive whiteboards, which stood in all their glory at the top of the colourful, inviting classrooms.
Ostensibly, I was merely there to procure a school enrolment form, but I was only calling in for a nose, much like you might drop in a neighbourâs internet shopping package under the guise of being neighbourly, but you just want to see how their new kitchen island is working out.
The vibes were great, and I knew instantly that my little guy would be happy there.
In an effort to sell Number One on the concept of big school, I have explained that part of the charm in this new building will be that he and his friends will all have to wear the same coloured jumper, which my four-year-old thinks is gas altogether.
His reasons primarily revolve around the fact that surely mammies and daddies wonât be able to tell the difference between all the boys and girls, and mix-ups must happen on the regular.
âIf we all have the same jumper, then Daddy might pick up my friend, and when Daddy gets home, he will know he made a mistake and have to go back to school, and the teacher will say he is bold,â he giggled.
I'd be lying if I said the scenario couldnât potentially happen at some point. After all, my husband failed to recognise our son when the girls at the childminder put his hair in pigtails. Collecting the wrong child is surely next.
It is amazing the difference a year makes. Last year, hearing that some of his naĂonara buddies were facing the next chapter, my little guy wished he could go back to a simpler time, a time when he was two and the gang was united in their childminderâs kitchen.
Though his friends, who were heading off to big school, were delighted with themselves, Number One sought to dampen their spirits at every opportunity.
âYou will never see your friends again,â he informed them, not mincing his words.
Of course, the same friends quickly realised that in west Kerry, breakups with friends are about as easy as breaking up with friends on Martin McDonaghâs fictional island of Inisheerin, though usually fewer severed fingers are involved.
It really does feel like I was dropping him off at naĂonara only yesterday, and now we are facing the next chapter. But Iâm not as nervous this time, because I know he will be OK. And even if he has a huge bust-up with the buddies in the interim, we are sticking with this school for September because we need to teach Number One about social resilience, but also, and more importantly, Iâve already bought the jumper, so thereâs officially no going back now.
