Our daughter, Jenny, started Primary 1 last year. Those carefree kindergarten years of noon-time naps and tea-time biscuits had come to an end, and she was going to get a taste of the proper academic rigour that is primary school. My wife and I – like all good mollycoddling parents – were understandably anxious about this transition.
What if she has trouble making friends?
Will there be a lot of homework in Primary 1??
How will our hapless youngling navigate the canteen while conveying a boiling bowl of soupy noodles??!
These considerations kept us awake at night, but perhaps the question that vexed us most gravely was: Does this mean we can no longer take Jenny out of school in April to enjoy sakura blossoms in Kyoto??!! What kind of cruel vacation-Nazis are running this establishment??!!
The bad news is that, yes, it is true that all primary schools prohibit any such holiday sojourns during the academic term. But I’m also pleased to report that all of our other concerns about P1 turned out to be largely unfounded. Jenny was keen to learn Math; she was excited about her new and expanded circle of friends; and not once was she scalded unceremoniously by fishball broth. (Mainly because her recess diet consisted primarily of lukewarm chicken nuggets and iced-Milo.)
We were so pleased and so proud that our little girl had found her footing in Primary 1 without incident, and we were quite ready to laugh at the foolishness of our initial consternation….
… and then Primary 2 happened.
Everyone goes on and on about the importance of priming your child for Primary 1. There are even P1 preparatory courses six-year-olds can enrol into, so as to ensure that they pre-learn everything that will be taught in that first year – perhaps in the hope that the child can then conveniently take off to Fukuoka during the April springtime climes. (Spoiler alert: Sorry, still cannot.)
What nobody ever talks about, though, is the innocuous descent into Primary 2. You see, after a full year of eating chicken nuggets with wild abandon, the lustre of this newfound independence has worn off more than a little bit. Even the joy of prodigal spending at the school bookshop is no longer the dopamine derby it was last year. And poor Primary-2 Jenny is only now discovering that it’s not all fun and recess.
For one thing, Math gets hard. Yes, that’s right. Jenny and her peers refer to it as “Math” now – preferring the singular form. When I was in school, we called it “Maths” – plural. But somewhere along the way, we became, like, you know, all American high school Youtuber and all, and we were like, yeah, totally, let’s call it Math instead. Cool, man.
(If it isn’t already obvious, I’m with Team Maths. All difficult subjects should be pluralised as a sort of warning sign that you should expect many, many problems. Same goes for Mother Tongues.)
Whatever we choose to call it, Maths is no longer the walk in the P1 park it used to be. Not only are the numbers in question becoming larger, the problems are also getting trickier. In fact, they have grown so complex that a new method of parsing the information has been introduced: Modelling.
Mathematical modelling works by creating a pictorial representation of a problem to simplify and solve it. Modelling experts tell us that this method helps children visualise the problem more readily, instead of being hampered by any linguistic limitations when it comes to understanding the semantics of the original question, expressed in words.
That does make a whole lot of sense, but because I suspect that these “modelling experts” are the same bunch who invent moody poses for skinny people on the Versace runway, I might not take them too seriously.
And then there is Spelling. It is well documented that only three things in this world can drive apart a parent and his progeny, tearing them asunder with nary a sliver of compassion. Those three things are, namely: war, kooky immigration policies, and Spelling.
The latter is the fastest way to make a frustrated parent suspend any love and endearment for his child — and vice versa. We struggle to understand how our otherwise clever kids can be so careless with spelling, and in turn, they don’t get why spelling is even a thing anymore since we are already equipped with auto-complete, Internet acronyms and cute emojis.
Throw in Primary 2 ting xie (听写, or Chinese-language spelling) and you, too, will be on Team Mother Tongues.
But those are just some of the academic hurdles that have grown more onerous in Primary 2. Beyond that, P2 students are also grappling with something even more nefarious – friendships.
When Jenny first started Primary 1, her main concern was that of a social nature — would she be able to make new friends in a class full of strangers? Those fears were swiftly decimated with the discovery of recess.
Recess to a P1 child is basically a massive play date that accommodates the entire cohort. It doesn’t matter if you like Elsa from Frozen or prefer Enid (of Blyton fame). Or even if you’re still hooked on the dreary drone that is Baby Shark. P1 recess-time tag does not judge.
Primary 2 recess, unfortunately, is not nearly as kind. As these kids grow, they also start to develop specific social preferences. What was once an inclusive recess party has now splintered into smaller, carefully curated cliques and clusters. Sadly, this also means some poor kid is bound to be excluded from a group she longs to be part of, and will promptly go home to announce that she has no friends.
Parents of these P2 students, you need to recognise this rejection as an important rite of passage, and really just power through all the crying, all the bruised egos, and that feeling of utter hopelessness every morning when it’s time to go to school.
Then you need to pull yourself together because your child needs you!
But really, all of us woe-stricken parents needn’t worry too much. Our sons and our daughters will probably be fine. After all, this rebuff is only felt acutely during the short 30-minute recess period. For the rest of the six-hour school day, most of them will be happily inducted into a hugely popular group that loves and accepts all our children: Teh Spellnig (sic) Bee Club.
I Am Jenny's Father 
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