As we enter the final half-term of the academic year, I marvel at how far my son has come in his first year of school. To go from being unable to hold a pencil correctly to writing a whole sentence is incredible to me and testament to his excellent teachers.
Indeed, I could never have fully comprehended the patience it takes to be a primary school teacher until I attempted homework with a four-year-old: “Can you try starting your letters from the top and not the bottom?” “No, no, we write left to right.” “That ‘N’ is sideways, so it is actually a ‘Z’.” These are just some of the phrases that I have been using on repeat.
It has been an education for me too of the world of phonics with all of its digraphs, trigraphs and common exceptions. And then there is the bigger picture, the lessons I didn’t expect to be teaching so early: the importance of persistence and of not giving up when tasks seem impossible. It is a constant work in progress, but the payoffs are huge. This year, for my birthday and for Mother’s Day, I received a handwritten card from my son. Their value is priceless.
Recently, parents were invited into my son’s Church of England school to view the work the reception year children had been doing over the year. There were folders filled with completed maths worksheets and handwriting practice, and hanging from the ceiling were hand-drawn pictures of the children’s families, and masks they had painted. Impressive and sweet in equal measure. But my favourite was a big book on the topics the class had covered in RE (religious education), which included quotes from the pupils. A page on Moses caught my eye. Next to a caricature of Moses holding the Ten Commandments, a quote from my son said: “I am Jewish, and I know him.” Commenting on it to his class teacher, she told me: “Oh, he is so proud of being Jewish, all his classmates know about it.” This was balm to my soul. For as proud as I am of all my son has achieved over this school year, it is what he has gained from his education outside of school, at cheder, that has most filled this Jewish mother with pride and joy. Through attendance at Sunday classes and becoming part of a community as a family, my son is discovering what it means to be Jewish, and he is absolutely bursting to tell everyone about it.
As the Jewish community navigates this post-October 7 world, reading almost daily reports of antisemitism with sinking hearts, and while I consider whether it would be wiser to cover up my Magen David with a scarf, my son is telling the man in Tesco that he doesn’t celebrate Christmas, actually, because – didn’t he know? – we are a Jewish family.
It’s the burst of Jewish pride I need right now and a reminder of how I was as a child, when being Jewish and part of a community was so central to my world. Watching my son delight in his heritage fills me with hope and has sparked some interesting conversations: “Mum, did God create my remote-control car?”
He is enthusiastic about going to cheder and visibly disappointed when it is closed for school holidays. If I’m honest, feeling enthusiastic about going to cheder is not an emotion I readily associate with my memories of it – however grateful I may be now that I went. But even if he wasn’t so keen, as a parent, I am realising that going to cheder or shul regularly is not just about learning or praying; the significance is in the little details. It is the breaktime packet of Bissli, hearing Hebrew spoken around you and taking part in Jewish life – seeing the thrilled look on my son’s face when he helped the caretaker put the s’chach on the roof of the succah is something I’ll never forget.
Sadly, I know my children are likely to face the challenge of antisemitism as they grow older; it is on the rise in schools and in wider society, and it isn’t a problem I can fix for them, as much as I wish I could. But if I can, at least, instill in them a joy of Judaism and provide a strong connection to our community, then perhaps I can give them the tools to withstand any hate that comes their way and be proud of who they are.
