I CAN’T believe that it’s half term already! Seems like only yesterday I waved my son off to his new school, anxious on his behalf at this change in his life. From being well established and well known in a small school, he was now one among many; from knowing all the staff and where to go, to not knowing any and having to navigate a strange world of new classrooms, new buildings and a new world. I could only support and encourage from a distance.

There were some difficult moments; he hated it; he just wanted his old life back. But a recent the enquiry from a friend; ‘So how are you enjoying your new school?’ elicited an enthusiastic list of the new discoveries that he was enjoying; a new foreign language, extra curricula opportunities he’d never had before, sports he’d no idea even existed even a multi-gym to visit in his spare time. It’s not all plain sailing; children are not saints; his encounter with a behaviours, language and attitudes that he’d not experienced before was unsettling. But so far my deepest anxieties are unrealised.

My transition from primary to secondary school parent has not been quite so smooth. Primary school was a world we shared; secondary is by invitation only. With no school gate to hang around; no other parents to meet; letters from teachers I’ve never heard of and a ‘parent portal’ that offers illusory involvement but keeps human contact at bay I’m the one struggling in an unfamiliar world.

When I was young, I used to go cycle camping. We’d load up the bikes and set off full of hope and expectation. Inevitably a hill would loom before us and, like the morning mist, our optimism soon evaporated. The nearer we got, the more the hill would assume the proportions of a mountain, unleashing a flood of self-doubt. Should I have done more training? Did I really need to pack that extra change of clothing? Surely there’s a route round. We’ll never do it!

But pretty soon you find your rhythm, and after some effort you’re admiring the view from the top with a sense of elation that eclipses the self-doubt. We soon swapped English hills for real mountains and though the grunts and groans were louder and longer, the same sequence of self doubt would unfold; I know we’ve been here before, but this time really is different; we’ll never manage that; isn’t there a way to avoid it?. Then the hard, slog and that reward of the mountain top view.

Hills and mountains always look more daunting from below. Each fresh one extinguishes all experience of past success. Starting a new school; coping with the transitions of parenthood; cycling up a hill; from below they all look like mountains. The climb can be hard work. But it’s the only way you’ll ever see the view from the summit…