They were phoning from the labour ward. They had a date of birth, just about, and a name. But that was all they needed. They didn’t know how to click a car seat in to transport a baby home from hospital, but they knew where they’d be dropping the same baby off, 5 years later, on his first day at school.
A friend was telling me recently about a fellow teacher whose school secretary regularly answered calls from new mums. Brand new Mums. Their babies were hours old, and they were calling to register them for the junior infants class of 2016. Then I told her I had done the same thing, or close enough. She was horrified.
The business of choosing a school for your little boy or girl is a tricky one. Séimí will go to school in September of 2016, and by April of 2012, his name was down with every Gaelscoil in the greater South Dublin area. He is far from assured a place in any of them.
As a family we are more seat-of-the-pants than subfolders and calendars. We don’t know what’s for dinner tomorrow, we let weekends ‘happen’ and I’m ashamed to admit that we still don’t have the badly needed stair gates installed. To think that we know where our son will (hopefully) go to school is far from typical of our ways. The truth is, the foresight was forced upon us. If you don’t have to submit electricity bills for proof of address within a mile of one school, you have to have a rake of older siblings in another. Some schools operate on a points system. Did you attend this school? No. Do you have another child or children registered in this school? No. Do you live in the immediate vicinity of the school? No. Null points, null points, null points.
The reality is that we are forced into forecasting our lives. Naoínra or playschool? Montessori or Educate together? Gaelscoil or private school? Maybe you need to move house to be closer to the dream school. Maybe you’re crazy enough to do that! Some Gaelscoils offer points for attending a Naíonra, so that’s what we’ll do. I’ll continue to speak Irish to Séimí (and his Daddy) in the meantime, and hope that if he’s lucky enough to be called for interview when he’s three, (yes that actually happens), at least he’ll be able to show an interest in the language.
The frustrating thing is that if Séimí doesn’t get into the school we’ve chosen, then any siblings he’ll have in future (fingers crossed) haven’t a prayer. The whole headache of seeking a school is one you don’t want to deal in the early days of a child’s life. You don’t want to wish your baby’s first few years away. You might not even know where you’ll live 4 or 5 years down the line, let alone know what route you’ll take on the school run. But it’s a very real part of planning a family life, and I suspect that it’s more pronounced in Dublin. With a bit of luck, Séimí will inherit the gift of the gab from his folks, and impress any principal who’s willing to take a chance on us. Otherwise his Daddy can sort out home schooling, because I’ll be too busy setting up a Gaelscoil in Dublin 12.
