Tag Archives: Dubai schools

Why dress-up days should be outlawed

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First, let me just say that Son2 loves to dress up, and finds it a big thrill to go to school in anything other than his navy-blue shorts and pinstriped, button-up shirt. In his closet, you’ll find plenty of costumes depicting numerous genres, from spiderboy to alien, vampire and terrorist. Yes, you read that correctly: he came downstairs this weekend looking like this:

Erm, DH: What was Santa thinking?

Erm, DH: What was Santa thinking?

But every time the school announces a special theme day, I have to admit my heart sinks a little bit. I can’t sew; if you handed me a piece of fabric I’d have no idea what to do with it; and the prop that would accessorise an outfit perfectly is never just lying around the house. It’s usually buried at the bottom of a cupboard, lost, broken or still in the shop.

And I’ve come to realise that this is a universal problem: there’s my good friend in London who had to come up with “a simple homemade fez” – with a tassel. (“We want the tassels to swirl when the children dance,” the teacher said.) Then there’s the kind commenters on my blog who’ve dressed their child up as a triangle and seriously considered crocheting a pilot’s hat after trawling the mall and finding nothing.

Oh yes, we mums do try when faced with these challenges – because you just know that there will be crafty mothers who got straight onto Pinterest. Not to mention that on, say, Book Character Day, school will be invaded by a mini fictional force made up of Harry Potter, Dr. Seuss, Angelina Ballerina and other favourite storybook characters. The look on your child’s face if their outfit is a laughing stock is enough to make any otherwise sane mum start cutting up the curtains.

I’ve even heard of dads having to get in on the act too, in some cases taking over as costume-deviser extraordinaire, and sewing! Another friend tells me her DH is the go-to person for dress-up days; for an Easter Bonnet parade, he constructed a spring hat with a giant carrot protruding from the top, which we were all still talking about the next year – a pilot by profession, creative genius in his spare time.

In the Circles household, given enough notice, I’m able to dispatch DH to a costume shop in New York on one of his trips here (yes, we cheat, big time!); and he came up trumps last term, with a ghoulish-grey Area 51 costume and mask for the day aliens landed on the playing field at Son2’s school.

The news that today would be African Explorer Day came a week ago, just as the reality of getting back to the grind was hitting, and saw me arguing vehemently with Son2 at 7 this morning over why he couldn’t take that stonking big nerf gun pictured above into class (huntsman, explorer, it was all the same to him).

As we got out of the car, Son2 – donned in hurriedly assembled safari-type garb and wearing binoculars round his neck – got cold feet. No-one was in costume! Mum must have got it wrong! (I hadn’t, it was only for his year). I did wonder for a moment – until, at the gate, we saw a stressed-looking mum with a teary, uniform-clad child, being asked by a teacher if they had anything at home resembling the mishmash my son was wearing. As she headed off (upset boy in tow) to figure it out, I ’m sure she must have wished dress-up days could be outlawed too.

The Christmas present conspiracy

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My boys go to separate schools. There’s a back-story behind this, which I’ll sum up in two words: waiting list. The happy side-effect of this bi-polar situation (the schools are quite different) is that while Son1 has to travel further on a bus, he loves his school.

He enjoys it for many reasons, not least because when the children have birthday parties, they get presents. This doesn’t happen at Son2’s school.

Instead, Son2’s school has a wonderful system where the mums give money (AED50) to the keeper of the birthday card, so that before a party, you’re not running around trying to find a pressie, gift wrap, Sellotape, etc. It also means that, if you’re the party host, you get a stash of cash to pay for the party buy your child something they want.

The towering pile of presents: A benefit of Son1's school

The towering pile of presents: A benefit of Son1’s school. Or money? Which system do you prefer?

Today, we held Son1’s ninth birthday party. It was an all-boy (and one girl) affair, involving 15 children, who we treated to laser tag and go-karting at Motor City, followed by pizza. To my relief, all went well – but, as I’d predicted, the presents were an issue with Son2.

“Na-na-na-nar-nar!” Son1 called out to his brother. “At MY school, you get presents.”

Son2 immediately started sobbing.

“Tell Mummy to put you on the waiting list for MY school,” Son1 helpfully suggested, as Catherine the Great and I struggled under the weight of the two huge bags of gifts we were hauling out to the car after the party.

And that’s when DH and I had an idea. Parents are so generous here, and the pile of presents really did look enormous (and excessive – I honestly wish I’d asked the mums to donate to charity instead) – and Christmas is so close. Surely Son1 wouldn’t notice if five or six of them turned into Santa presents?

I raised an eyebrow at DH. He agreed. We’d hide one bagful until Christmas, then Santa could give them to both boys. Was this ethical? Never mind. It was a done deal. It would, at the very least, stop Son2 from sobbing in the corner during the grand opening.

Well, let’s just say we very nearly got away with it. Catherine the Great successfully hid some of the wrapped-up gifts; Son1 dived into unwrapping the rest of them, giving his beloved Girl Next Door, and even long-suffering Son2, turns at opening them (they even tidied up, I’m liking nine so far!).

I sat back, watching, with a cup of tea.

Then, as the unwrapping frenzy slowed: “Mum, there was another bag. I saw it. The Toys-R-Us bag. Where is it? You know, the white bag.”

I don’t know if it was the nagging guilt I was feeling about our scheme, or the realisation that the children often tell each other what they’re giving – plus the fact parents put thought into it (hence, the Titanic jigsaw and Lego sets) – but we buckled, causing green-eyed Son2 to go totally silent and Son1 to whoop with unbridled joy.

Lucky Son1! I know I’ll regret it when it comes time to tackle the dreaded Christmas shopping. Gah.

Inside the KHDA’s (quirky, Google-like) inner sanctum

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If you’re a mum of school-aged children in Dubai, you’ll have heard of the KHDA inspectors. You’ll realise that if you don’t want to know what ranking your child’s school has received (unacceptable, acceptable, good or outstanding), you’d better keep your fingers in your ears at the school gates.

You might also have noticed that all the stops are pulled out when the KHDA calls. Stories abound of equipment arriving just before inspections and promptly disappearing afterwards; extra teachers – even painters – being brought in the week before; and students being drilled on how to put up their hands (left if they know the answer, right if they don’t).

From the outside, Dubai’s regulatory authority for education looks like a fairly ordinary office building, out in the desert.

From the outside, Dubai’s regulatory authority for education looks like a fairly ordinary government building, out in the desert.

How prevalent these tricks are is unknown, but I can vouch for the fact that when Son1’s school was inspected earlier this year, I agreed to spend a lunch-hour sitting under a palm tree reading to any child who’d listen – just as the inspectors, who look for parent engagement as a sign of a quality school, happened to be in the vicinity.

So who is this body that has ALL THIS power? Whose reports cause Dubai’s schools to go in and out of fashion, and grants them the right to raise (already expensive) school fees? Today I got the chance to find out (more in the Q&A below). Even if you don’t live in the UAE, or have no children, keep scrolling: my visit to the Dubai government’s amazing KHDA-plex in Academic City was truly illuminating, and anyone would be forgiven for thinking they’d actually stumbled across Google HQ.

On the inside, you discover the KHDA offers staff and visitors a crazy array of perks, from yoga classes, kung fu and tai chi to a chef who makes delicious food and entertaining spaces like this one.

On the inside, you discover the KHDA offers staff and visitors a crazy array of perks, from yoga classes, kung fu and tai chi to a chef, who makes delicious food, and stylish hospitality spaces like this one.

Right in the middle of the main concourse, you’ll find this piano – which anyone can play, and everyone stops to listen to.

Right in the middle of the main concourse, you’ll find this piano – which anyone can play, and everyone stops to listen to.

Just keep in mind this is a government regulator, a department of education … because it gets better and better.

A very quick peek in here revealed a phone charger point. Just as quirky was the yellow budgerigar in a little aviary upstairs.

A very quick peek in here revealed a phone charger point. Just as quirky was the yellow budgerigar in a cage upstairs.

I’m not quite sure what goes on in here, but it was called the water room. Next, we walked past two office-workers in a glass room running a call centre. “They’ve been holed up in here for a while,” our guide told us. “They don’t know it yet, but things are being re-designed so that they’ll soon be sitting in the middle of a forest.”

I’m not quite sure what goes on in here, but it was called the water room. Next, we walked past two office-workers in a glass room running a call centre. “They’ve been holed up in there for a while,” our guide told us. “They don’t know it yet, but things are being re-designed so that they’ll soon be sitting in the middle of a forest.”

Treadmill workstations are located all over the building. These facilities allow staff to work while exercising, and they can do presentations from exercise bikes. There’s no claiming you don’t have the right shoes: one of the treadmills is high-heels friendly.

Treadmill workstations are located all over the building. These facilities allow staff to work while exercising, and they can do presentations from exercise bikes. There’s no claiming you don’t have the right shoes, either: one of the treadmills is high-heels friendly.

The Thrive activities schedule offers free stillness classes, hatha yoga, ashtanga yoga and Chinese martial arts. On the fifth floor, there’s a spa bathroom, with hanging crystals.

The Thrive activities schedule offers free stillness classes, hatha yoga, ashtanga yoga and Chinese martial arts. On the fifth floor, there’s a spa bathroom, with hanging crystals.

A brand new feature is the English/Arabic smart-signs that ‘nudge’ people to climb stairs instead of using the lifts. The high-tech mounted screens display the exact calorie-burn for each stairway and give motivational health messages. KHDA workers can then track, ‘gamify’ and share their stair-climbing performance using a smartphone app. “The only better stairs I’ve seen are at Dewa (Dubai Electricity & Water Authority),” our guide said. “They’re surrounded by mirrors, and by the time you get to the top you look like Kate Moss.”

A brand new feature is the English/Arabic smart-signs that ‘nudge’ people to climb stairs instead of using the lifts. The high-tech mounted screens display the exact calorie-burn for each stairway and give motivational health messages. KHDA workers can then track, ‘gamify’ and share their stair-climbing performance using a smartphone app.
“The only better stairs I’ve seen are at Dewa (Dubai Electricity & Water Authority),” our guide added. “They’re surrounded by mirrors, and by the time you get to the top you look like Kate Moss.”

Gorgeous works of art are everywhere – oh, and more exercise equipment if you fancy hanging around.

Walls are adorned with gorgeous works of art – oh, and here’s some more exercise equipment if you fancy hanging around.

On the way out, after writing a message on a tablet that was projected onto a TV screen for all to read, I noticed this rug. This is the morning rug, welcoming visitors in numerous different languages. At 12 noon, it’s changed to a ‘Good afternoon’ rug.

After writing a farewell message on a tablet that was projected onto a TV screen for all to read, I noticed this enormous rug on the way out. This is the morning rug, welcoming visitors in different languages. At 12 noon, it’s changed to a ‘Good Afternoon’ rug.

“We place great importance on wellness at KHDA, introducing numerous healthy initiatives for our staff,” said Hind al-Mualla, the authority’s chief of engagement. “We believe that both health and wellbeing are a vital part of happiness.”

I was sold. I asked for a job. I’d wanted to work in the civil service in the UK years ago, perhaps this was a second chance. And when they told me they offer a ‘working-mum contract’ with hours that fit around school, I was ready to rush home and dust-off my CV.

“We don’t accept CVs,” smiled the director-general. “Send us a selfie.” And he wasn’t joking: To apply, you need to download KHDA Connect from the Apple app store, and tell them about yourself by text, audio or video.

Q&A

What is the KHDA?
The Knowledge and Human Development Authority is Dubai’s regulatory authority for education, responsible for the growth, direction and quality of private education and learning in Dubai.

When was it established and why?
In 2007, the World Bank published a report on private education in the Middle East, The Road Not Travelled, which inspired the KHDA – established in the same year – to follow its guidelines and set up an inspection regime.

Has it made progress in raising standards in Dubai’s schools?
Yes. This has been a challenge for various reasons, not least because of the speed at which the education system is growing (this year has seen 11 new schools opening in the emirate); the large number of different curriculums (16, including British, International and Indian) and the hugely varying price points (you can pay up to AED55,000 / US$15,000 in annual tuition for a 3-year-old; and as much as AED103,200 / US$28,000 for Year 13).

After five years of inspections, the percentage of pupils attending good or outstanding institutions has risen from 30 per cent to 51 per cent. “Every year, we raise the bar,” says director-general Dr Abdulla al-Karam.

If schools do well, they are allowed to raise their fees.

How fast are admissions rising?
Enrolment is rising at 7-8 per cent a year, and not just among expats; over the past decade, the number of Emiratis in private education has risen from 34 per cent to 57 per cent.

What is being done about the waiting-list problem?
While some ‘waiting lists’ serve a marketing purpose, the better schools do tend to have limited space and lengthy waiting lists (which you have to pay to get on). The situation is improving as more schools open, although with Dubai’s rapid growth, it’s hard for services such as health and education to keep up. This year, an extra 23,000 new school places were created. As parents were unsure if some of these schools would open in time for Sept 2014, the number of requests for tranfers is currently high.

What on earth are children doing in PE these days?

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What do you remember about PE in school? I think I must have blocked out much of it, but I have vague recollections of attempting to climb thick, coiled ropes in the gym and going on cross-country runs in little more than a vest and underwear. This was in secondary school, where it was all too easy to develop a lifelong loathing of organised physical activities – and sports all too often took place on rain-lashed pitches, wearing plimsolls [shudders].

But we were expected to take part in all manner of activities, from netball, hockey, rounders and gymnastics to track-and-field events such as the long-jump and throwing the shot put. I might have endured it rather than loved it, but I recognise now that Mrs Wilson didn’t personally have it in for me, and forging sick notes didn’t do me any good.

I’ve been thinking about this, because I’ve been wondering recently what on earth my older son is doing in PE lessons. While I send him to school in his PE kit and trainers (we’re still working on the laces) twice a week, I know for sure he’s spending far less time doing games than I did. (Read into that, building up a reserve of humiliating memories, if you like.)

Demolished years ago, this is a photo of my local town’s Soviet bloc-style masterpiece – aka, the swimming pool, which we had to walk a mile to from primary school. Yes, WALK TO, Son1!

Demolished years ago, this is a photo of my local town’s Soviet bloc-style masterpiece – aka, the swimming pool, which we had to walk a mile to from primary school. Yes, WALK TO, Son1!

Obviously there’s a climate issue here in Dubai over the hot months, but much of the academic year is blessed with beautiful weather. So, why then, does my son tell me he’s done things like Simon Says in his PE lessons? Today was an even more classic example. “We had to Skype someone in PE today, and ask her questions,” Son1 told me, to my astonishment. “It was a lady in India – the PE teacher’s friend.”

Seriously? No, not skipping – Skyping.

Further questioning revealed this was connected to their current Unit of Inquiry, but I honestly would have preferred that he’d spent the hour running around. After those early years where Son1 was continually moving like a whirling dervish, we’ve now reached the stage where more time is spent on the sofa chasing electronic baddies across a screen.

Swimming is obviously a huge thing in schools here, and both my sons have been swimming twice a week in their school pools, but it seems that to get your children into team sports you have to pay money to private companies that organise sessions in various locations – such as Soccer Kids, who my boys do football with on Saturdays. Then drive your offspring all over the place to attend, knowing that if you don’t their legs might fall off through lack of use.

Silently stealing luggage space

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My DH took the children away last week. I couldn’t go because of work, so I (rather forlornly) waved them off to Beirut, where their grandparents live.

It was the first time I’d had to ‘let the boys go’, and I felt strangely untethered, as though gravity had disappeared – until I rediscovered how much extra time there is when you’re the only person in the house (things stay exactly where you leave them, it’s crazy!)

Our nanny did the children’s packing, but when I got home from work, DH was doing some pruning.

xxxxxx

Don’t forget their toothbrushes – and the class gorilla! (hehe)

Now, when I pack the cases, I’m pretty thorough. If we got stuck on a desert island, we could be self-sufficient thanks to my packing (which is sometimes, I admit, excessive – but then I’ve got nearly nine years’ of experience of travelling with children who create laundry like nobody’s business).

Men, I’ve realised, view packing quite differently. DH had thrown out several T-shirts; when I tried to put baseball caps in, I had to argue their case; and as for taking suntan lotion, you’d think I was attempting to sneak a brick into the suitcase. (“There’ll be some there,” was DH’s viewpoint. “Just take it, in case,” I replied.)

So I did have to secretly smile when DH’s hand-luggage only plans were stymied by the class bear. The mascot is actually a gorilla – at least a foot tall. As Son2 left school clutching the stuffed toy – hardly able to believe his luck that he was the first to take him away – DH must have groaned inwardly at the gorilla’s surprisingly large size.

At the back to school night, another dad had quipped, “If he’s excess baggage, he’s not going.” But, given the jet set life of a travelling toy in an international school, you just know that the class gorilla has probably scuba-dived in the Maldives; made it to Hong Kong Disneyland; not to mention enjoyed weekend trips to Oman and Turkey.

Back to school in eight steps

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It’s a week of mixed feelings here as the old routine kicks in again. Last week, my mornings were quite tolerable (and I say this as a non-morning person). Up at 7.30am, out the door by 8.15am, and, wallop, I was at my desk by 9am. No cajoling children into school uniforms, no bullying them out the door and no 30-minute detours to deposit them at school.

At exactly 6.30am today, this all changed – thanks to the early-bird school starts in Dubai, which, quite frankly, make my workdays with no school drop-offs seem like a leisurely lie-in in comparison.

Aside from the early-morning mania, there are – as every school mum knows – numerous other factors that can make the back to school routine something of a challenge after two months of free-fall.  My eight-step refresher regimen runs as follows:

Step1: Return from overseas and get everyone over a flu-like case of jet lag. Once back on a semi-normal schedule, do this all over again when the alarm clock starts going off at what feels like the middle of the night.

Cheers fellow mums! We made it!

Cheers fellow mums! We made it!

Step2: Visit the uniform shop at the same time as 200 other parents, all accompanied by whinging school-sized offspring needing kitting out with uniforms, PE clothes, hats, shoes, lunch boxes and water cups. Try to avoid Organised Mum – yummy-mummy-of-three-hen-pecked-children extraordinaire, in the store to buy a wall planner with extra space for their endless after-school activities. (She bought new uniforms in June, long before the store ran out of book bags and PE shirts, and can also be found at the spa having regular back rubs to counteract the stress of educating her gifted girls.)

Step3: Spend an evening labeling your ‘shopping’, using iron-on labels or, preferably, a sharpie marker. You can practise for this by writing your child’s name neatly on a postage stamp in permanent ink.

Step4: On the first morning, pay special attention to your chosen outfit. Currently trending is gym wear, preferably black, with a ponytail that swings. (Think pert bottoms strutting into school in tight spandex). Whether or not you actually go straight to the gym from the drop off is entirely irrelevant. Hint: You may return for the pick-up in the same gym wear, creating the aura of a potential six-hour work out. A huge pair of sunglasses will hide a plethora of cosmetic tardiness, but make sure your nails and hair look groomed.

Step5: Channel your inner drill sergeant to get the children out the door. Drive 20km on Emirates Road  – try to avoid trucks and tyres on the road. As you get closer, be prepared to race other parents from the red light. Even if you only drop off one child, aim to manoeuvre your 7-seater SUV to within a hair’s breadth of the school gates, avoid eye contact, and lean across the steering wheel to call out urgent information about Henrietta’s tap dance class and Harry’s speech therapy.

Step6: If you’ve cut up a friend to secure a prime parking spot, give her a cheery wave as you alight from your car. Do not rush or run. Do not push or drag your child. Irrespective of the chaos of the first-day back, keep a relaxed, happy expression on your face as you wade through a 1400-strong crowd of children and parents, all jostling to find the right line and blinking in the bright sunshine. Greet each member of staff and wish them good morning. Train your children to do the same.

Step7: When engaging in small talk with other parents keep to the following subjects: how charming the children are, how much the children are growing, how lovely everyone looks, the weather. Never admit to another mother any homework not done, lost library books, tantrums endured either at home or in the car, diarrhoea or head lice. And have a story ready about the luxury, handmade yurt your family stayed in on holiday. (Yachts are so yesterday.)

Step8: Repeat, another 180 times, until the summer vacation rolls around again.

An 8-year-old’s embryonic blog

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Thank goodness that, for Son1, at least, the days of bringing back half a rainforest of artwork are over. This week, he’s mostly brought home exercise books, rather than the artistic creations exploding with glitter and glue that used to get piled up to the rafters during his kindergarten years.

The English, Maths, French, Arabic and Music books were certainly interesting to look at, but the workbook I enjoyed the most was the diary documenting his weekends. It was almost like an embryonic blog, with squiggly pictures and illuminating insights into his mind:

On the role DH and I play:
“Families are important because they take us places … They pay for cheeseburgers and crisps. They go to work to get money to buy toys.”

Before we busted him for getting up at 5.30am to play computer games:
“Happily, on Friday morning I played Xbox for 4 hours, then my mum came downstairs.”

Such a hard life:
“If I could make something disappear, it would be homework … and school.”
[“Tell me more,” wrote the teacher!]

In my next life, I’m coming back as an expat kid:
“On the weekend, I flew to Oman and stayed in a fancy hotel.”

On being small:
“I think it is great being a child because we don’t have to pay the bills. We can also fit through small holes, and adults can’t.”

Not Son1's, but this made me laugh. It was turned in by a first grader in the US, and marked by the teacher. The next day, the mom wrote a note: "Dear Ms. Davis, I want to be perfectly clear on my child's homework illustration. It is NOT me on a dance pole on a stage in a strip joint surrounded by male customers with money. I work at Home Depot and had commented to my daughter how much money we made in the recent snowstorm. This drawing is of me selling a snow shovel.

Not Son1’s, but this made me laugh. It was turned in by a first grader in the US, and marked by the teacher. The next day, the mom wrote a note: “Dear Ms. Davis, I want to be perfectly clear on my child’s homework illustration. It is NOT me on a dance pole on a stage in a strip joint surrounded by male customers with money.
I work at Home Depot and had commented to my daughter how much money we made in the recent snowstorm.
This drawing is of me selling a snow shovel.”

Class list Jenga

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This week, many mums in Dubai found out which classes their children are going to be in from September.

Each year (and for Son1, it is an annual event), the release of the class lists is an eagerly anticipated event. Mums anxiously pore over the role calls; they take photos of the lists, and discuss at the school gate who little Sylvie will be mixing with next year.

(Believe me, I’ve seen mums sobbing over this).

As for the children, I’m not convinced they’re as bothered as the mums.

It might be different for girls, but for boys, shaking up the classes doesn’t seem to be too big of a deal – especially in a society as fluid as ours, where numerous children leave at the end of the school year anyway and September always sees a fresh crop.

Circles of friends are given a shake, rattle and roll

Circles of friends are given a shake, rattle and roll, with no bribes accepted

Son1 was given the chance to pick three friends he wants in his class next year, and the letter said they’d try to make sure he’s in the same class as at least one. (I hear some schools in the UK even let you name one child you’d rather not be with).

There follows a process of list building that I can only imagine is like playing Jenga, with the teachers not only taking friendship groups into account, but also gender balance, ability mix and personality clashes.

Far from just bunging the names in a bag and pulling them out, the decision-making must get complicated: “Sylvie makes Tallulah cry so we should split them, and we’d better share out Boris, Hugo and Tarquin because they’re gifted and talented – almost fluent in Mandarin with rocket-scientist aspirations – and make sure the football squad aren’t all in the same class.”

Repeat x140 children per year.

But, as I said, for us mums, that moment when the list is released can be a little tense. My eyes rapidly scanned the names of the children– of whom son1 knows about three, and (because we all know this is important too) I know one of the mums. Not bad at all.

Happy mixing kiddos!

The end-of-term talent show

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Could you? I know I couldn't

Could you? I know I couldn’t

Today was a nerve-wracking day for myself and DH (who wasn’t even here).

It was the day of the end-of-term talent show. Called ‘2JW’s Got Talent’, it was a more elaborate version of the end-of-term concerts we’re all used to attending – with judges.

DH and I were terrified.

We’d known about it for a week, and were aware the children had been practising their routines (magic, miming, jokes, lip singing, football skills, etc) in groups at school. Son1 had partnered with a friend, but then they’d broken up, and rather than join another group, Son1 had decided he’d go solo.

“Really?” we enquired, astounded that our shy son (who’s had to be encouraged to speak up in class) would even consider a solo performance. When he told us he was doing a dance, our astonishment grew.

The night before, I tried to find out from him if he really was going to bust some moves to one of his favourite songs, Meet the Girls of Norway (!), in front of at least 25 mums and dads with cameras, several teachers and all his class mates.

He got off the sofa, gave his body a shake, then – with arms and legs splaying everywhere – did a crazy four-second dance, which ended with him throwing himself on the floor.

Let’s just say, this didn’t put my nerves at ease, and as I drove to school today, I felt like I was going to an audition myself.

But, you know what, I’d totally underestimated his ‘talent’ – and I don’t mean the dancing (although actually the dance was great, even half-choreographed, with girl backing dancers). I mean the ability to get up in front of a crowd and perform, without feeling embarrassed or struck dumb with stage fright – and that goes for all the children.

Born to be a star

Born to be a star

There were, of course, the natural performers – in particular, the girl in a flouncy, tiered dress with fluttery eyelashes, lip singing to a song from Frozen and loving her moment of fame. And there were several boys who enjoyed their comedy act so much I thought we’d still be sat there at dinnertime listening to jokes (the teacher must have thought so too, as I noticed her desperately signaling to them to wind it up).

But, even the shyer children came across as confident youngsters. And that I realised, is one of the big benefits of education today – the belief and courage being instilled in these kids that they can express themselves, give presentations and think outside of the box. (In a few years’ time, the school has them attending mock UN conventions, and pitching entrepreneurial ideas in business clothes.)

“Were you nervous?” I asked Son1 this evening (just the thought of public speaking makes me shudder). “A bit,” he replied, “but then the teacher suggested I could have girls-of-Norway backing dancers.”

And that did the trick. Smart move.

The ‘bear’-faced selfie

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It was the moment Son2 had been waiting for since the beginning of the school year: The day he got to take Bernie, the class bear, home.

Bernie arrived at our house in a bag, with his scrapbook – a well-leafed diary documenting his time spent with the families in Son2’s class. The pages were filled with photos, hand-written stories, speech bubbles, decorative stamps, evidence of baking extravaganzas and even a bear-class boarding pass.

You wouldn’t believe how creative it gets.

Son2 and I browsed the book together. ‘Oh look, there’s Bernie parachuting into someone’s garden, ” I exclaimed, my wide-open eyes settling on a photo of the bear floating into the family’s backyard underneath a make-shift canopy. “And here he is ON SKIS, in France!”

xxxx

Silently seeking attention

It got even better: Blow me down, but Bernie spent Christmas in Lapland. There were snaps of him playing in the snow, snuggled up in the log cabin and listening to music in his airplane seat. “Let’s take Bernie on a husky safari, then tonight, if we’re really lucky, we might get a shot of him gazing at the Aurora Borealis rolling across the sky,” I could almost hear the enthused parents telling their bemused children.

Our time with Bernie had much more of a homey feel. In the knowledge that on top of all the usual weekend chores, I had to find amusing things to do with a bear, I set up numerous photo opportunities – of Bernie reading books, cosy in his pyjamas, sitting on the kitchen table eating noodles and using his paws to scale the bunk bed ladder. In an inspired moment, he posed for a #nomakeupselfie.

I even remembered to take Bernie with us when we went to football, and in the car, took care to buckle him up in the back.

Son2 looked at me suspiciously as I fiddled around trying to secure the seat belt. It was a look that suggested he thought I’d lost my mind. “Mum, he’s just a toy, you know!” my 5YO reminded me, with a roll of his eyes and a casual glance in Bernie’s direction.