A safe place

we stand at the edge now. slowly. Sometimes i feel fatalistically fatally. How we decide to speak to our oldest. And our younger ones. Every day. How the day plans and pans out. They are reminded of what is important. And today my oldest reminds me suddenly. And painfully. That they are aware, how our plans wishes and quiet expectations are felt. Imprinted. Pressed upon. Embossed.

If i cant do it it will be ok?

Cant do what sweetheart.

Finish lunch on time at the big boy school.

Phew. Yup.

In my head i laughed.  In mirth. In relief. Is that all he is worried about. Whether he can finish his lunch on time..

Yet that is what i have been telling him abt. School. Finish up on time. Keep to time at school. We have never worried abt whether he is able to learn. Or learn well. But increasing, i am aware most parents arent worried abt life habits after 3 or 4 years of age. People worry. Really worry and prepare their kids to learn. To be ready.  To BE.

We have had good advice from folks who love us. Prepare them otherwise they will get a shock when they start real school. No one is allowed to read anything they want. They wont have time to read a book from cover to cover. They have homework.

Oh dear. My heart has been sinking over the past few months. As our latest baby settles into our lives and i am embracing this “last baby” phase, i am slowly but surely realising, what about all the inpromptu visits to wherever-we-fancy. Afternoons of making feet and hand prints to give to whoever. To write stories. To read all the comics and listen to instruments and decide which ones shld have never been invented or which ones make the world happy.

My childhood. Our childhood. Our beloved days. Is this grieving.

How can my kids know how much they are celebrated for who they are in this world if we are “gearing up” or amouring up for tests and “education”. School isnt bad. What we want from school however, or the purpose of it. Scares me. Me. I worry it hurts.

Life isnt easy and a cup of chocolate. They know that. But this instinctive swell of “god makes you who you are!” resonates loudly. It isnt binary. I know that. Sometimes tho, i cant see it. Best intentions. Best parents. Parenting. I feel like a small quiet voice. Quivering. Uncertain.

I think it hurts. Them. Us.

Not topics subjects or exams define you. Not your intellgence. Not your perseverence. Not your heart. Not the song you are made to sing. Hum. Or whisper. We all hope this. know this. Just look at all the facebook n instagram feeds. Yet. the same amount of prologues. about best intellengence courses. Summer camps. Holiday preps. Everyone IS A CHAMPION!

My head hurts.

We dont mail to clouds. We work. We do our sums and what holidays we can afford. Yet. As i watch the little ones his age march pass in their bags and serious waterbottles, i find myself wanting to repeat over and over again.

This will not be a mistake.

We choose not to believe in more preparations. more advancements. More achievements. More ahead-ness.

The good book says. Learn to serve. Before aspiring to be a leader. Find what you love to learn, and discover the depths and wonders of learning. Or perservering. And if you try and it isnt enough, we celebrate it. Because like love, even if its not all meant to be, that love was true.

playgrounds. Bored lamentations. Making you wash the turtle tank. The same 7 main toys over 7 years and 3 kids. Reading on the sofa together about lands and beasts and lives and sorrows as a 6 year old.

Maybe we risk this. Your days ahead. They call it your future. We. Risk. It.

My beloved. Forgive me for believing in these days. Stubornly. Preciously guarding. Against the world. The recommendations from people, people who write, who are paid to write, the messages about this season.

I bank this in. Our defient. Cold quiet rock upon to rest against this relentless tide. This childhood your father and i wish for you. Our beloved children.