All the time in the world. 


Should we make shields, should we make flags? Where are the bamboo sticks? I found the sticky tape!

Let’s play a card game. Let’s have a battle. Let’s swing from the chin up bar, hold the baby, spend an hour or two out in the drizzle. Ew, I found a dead earwig!

Where are the pencils, can I have some toast? Do you like the bread? I made it! Bring your teddy, everyone being the teddies upstairs. 

Let’s have enough popcorn that our stomachs explode. I’m doing Lego, let’s do that imagination game. Can I see the baby’s fingernails?

What’s this thing (abacus)? Look, I’ve made a pattern. Watch me, I’m pretending to fall to make you laugh. Hey, I read this sign hanging by your bed, why is it there?

Five and a half hours. They did stuff outside with paintbrushes, while we talked about the lies our siblings told us and the lies we told them. (I told my sister squirrels lived inside green beans when we were kids.) 

Five and a half hours of noisy shrieking, with interludes of peaceful quiet and absorption. Playing, creating, filling entire plates with mounds of popcorn. 

Not bad. Not bad at all. 

The cool kids. 

We all knew those cool kids. Perfect hair, always in the right clothes, walking down the hallway like they owned the place. It was a relief to say goodbye to them. 

And a joy to usher in the new wave of cool kids. 

Clothes they picked themselves, wandering a museum (often independently), little treasures traded and freely given. 

These are the kids who roam these halls, who walk freely in the city in the middle of the day, who can talk about whatever they want with whoever they want. 

These kids, these deeply cool kids, don’t have to do anything more than be themselves. They are celebrated for that, and they accept each other. They’ve achieved the sort of self confidence, empathy, and freedom   (most of the time, anyway) that many of us don’t know about till at least our mid thirties. 

These kids don’t know how cool they are. They don’t fully understand how joyful, exploratory, and full their lives are – at least when compared to being in a school setting all day. They (usually) don’t have a lot of outside pressure put on them, they have the chance to explore internal motivation, they are all in the same place but might be doing different things. 

These kids are sketching. Or looking at mummies. They are playing in the children’s area, marvelling at ores, hiding around corners to jump out and scare each other. 

They do what they do, they are who they are, and really, what could be cooler than that? 

Perfect.

I posted this picture online, and I wanted to write the word ‘perfect,’ but I held back. I have so many problems with that word. Is it something we should aim for? Is it realistic? What does it look like, how does it feel, will I make others feel awful even as I feel suspended in the aftermath of a good day?

But you know what? There are perfect moments. And my children are lucky, perhaps, to not realise how perfect their childhood is.

Today we went to a friend’s house, and another family met us there. Three families, seven children, a few big fields and some time around a kitchen table. If that isn’t perfect, I don’t know what is.

My children have the freedom I felt every day after school and on the weekends, except I was mostly alone or with my sister. My children are mostly with other lucky children. And on this day, they strode through purple grasses taller than they were. They befriended caterpillars (and mourned unintentional caterpillar deaths), they climbed trees, they threw grass seeds at each other.

Of course there were small moments of drama, but there were these larger moments. Like the one in the picture. There they are, these small children in the picture, free and exploring and happy.

Perfect.

Eight hours. 


Earlier this week we spent eight hours in the woods. I’m not entirely sure what the kids got up to – I didn’t see them most of the time. 

We try to spend one day a week at Forest School. We come early, we stay late. Way late. 

The kids climb trees, make dens, chase zombie farmers, play at the mud kitchen, get stung by nettles, cook over the fire, fight (and make up) with friends, swing on a tyre. 

What do I do? A lot of laughing by the campfire. 

Because at Forest School, kids are friends with kids who are friends with adults who are friends with adults who are friends with kids. We’re all on a first name basis. 

There’s some babies, some toddlers, quite a few kids roundabout M and S’s age, and some older kids too. And mums, dads, aunts, grandparents, dogs. 

The whole place is an autonomous romp through the woods and the afternoons- everyone chooses what to do, what delights them. 


It’s a chance for kids to be totally reliant on imagination and nature. 

They get to take risks – starting fires, using knives, drilling holes in logs. They get to do big stuff – giant net forts, huge screaming games of running wild through the trees and fields, collaborative projects like the ‘summer house’ that’s been being created over the last month or so. 

But more than that, it’s full of tiny magic moments. Those are the ones I think are the most important. 

Two kids side by side on a swing, chatting. Someone playing alone with a bowl of water and some sticks. Sitting surrounded by friends while we eat lunch on the ground. 

This week we spent eight hours breathing deeply in the fresh air. Eight hours laughing. Eight hours with campfire smoke and drama and sunlight. 

It’s days like that I feel so grateful and connected and at peace. These moments are not tiny pieces of their childhood, it’s what most of their childhood is like. 

As a friend said after this week, how lucky the children are. 

Really, how lucky we all are. 

Growing tall and bright. 

I read this crazy article the other day. It can be summed up like this:

The school system is awful and needs a complete overhaul. Home education can be awesome.  Yet it is more important to go to school so people can learn to fit in among the mediocre. Many people flourish best when in someone else’s shadow.

Um, what?? 

I flourish in sunshine, with space to grow, with fresh air and fresh ideas. 

My goal is certainly not to have children who live in the shadows, functioning adequately. Being moderately happy. 

My kids are my kids. They’ll be whoever they are. 

Yet, how glorious if we all grew tall, faces toward the sun, and when we reached those heights we held out a hand and helped others into the sun, too. 

  

Car math. 

We have done car math for as long as I can remember, whenever the mood strikes us. These little oral challenges encompass adding, subtracting, multiplication, division, fractions, critical thinking, and even algebra. 

All the questions below were asked today, except the last two which I remembered being particularly amazed with correct answers about a year ago. 

No pressure or expectation to get things right, but they nailed every question. I need to up my game!!

——-

M had two pumpkin pies and gave you half of one. How much does he have left?

You had eight Spider-Men and gave one to A and one to B, how many left?

How much is four twos?

How much is three fours?

If you had two chickens and a cow, how many feet would there be?

If there were two cars, and one popped a tyre, how many tyres would be left?

If you chopped an apple in half, then each of those pieces in half, how many pieces would you have? 
Count the seats in our car. If we had A and B come on a ride with us, how many empty seats would be left?
How much is two fives? And five twos?
If you needed fourteen Lego pieces to build a set but only had eight, how many more pieces do you need? 

If you had twenty fish fingers and the two of you had two friends over, how many fish fingers would everyone get to make it even?

——

Who needs a curriculum. Not us. Ha.