Letter from lockdown: As a cliched middle-class parent, homeschooling has brought out my worst

I’m about to confess a shameful secret. All I can say in my defence is: I’m a cliched middle-class parent. Which is why, even in lockdown, my competitive instincts all too often get the better of me.

While my son is having a video call with his class, I’ll usually be in the same room, working on my laptop. I’ll overhear the teacher asking the class a question. And sometimes, I just can’t resist slipping the boy the answer.

For example: last week, the teacher asked the class to guess how tall the Eiffel Tower was. Frankly, I had no more idea than my son did. But I quickly googled the answer, tiptoed across the room, stationed myself carefully to the side of my son’s iPad so the teacher couldn’t see me, and mouthed the words, “THREE HUNDRED METRES!”

My son raised his hand. “Is it 300 metres?” he asked.

At the other end of the line there was a brief pause.

“That’s a good guess,” said the teacher. Something about the way she said it made me sense she had her suspicions.

Then there was the game in which the teacher would call out a letter of the alphabet, and the children had to rush off and bring back a household item that began with that letter. Points were awarded each time to the fastest child.

“Something beginning with J!” my son would yelp. And, as if we were some kind of family relay team, my wife would grab a jacket potato from the fridge, hand it to me, I would hand it to the boy, and he would flourish it in triumph at his iPad camera.

I know. It’s appalling. Outrageous. A scandal.

Only one thing eases my conscience. The knowledge that the other parents are doing exactly the same.

*****

When my son goes back to school, there’s one thing I’m pretty sure he’ll miss. The freedom to eat whenever he likes. Under lockdown the boy has become an eating machine.

He’ll start the day with a good hearty breakfast: a bowl of Corn Flakes, followed by a bowl of Rice Krispies, followed by a bowl of muesli, and then to round it off, if he’s feeling peckish, a bowl of porridge. With breakfast finally out of the way, the snacking can begin. Müllerice, Fruit Yo Yo, grapes, blueberries… The scoffing never ends. He’s like some gluttonous Edwardian aristocrat mowing his way through a 50-course banquet.

Yet the most remarkable thing is: he hasn’t put on an ounce of weight. While poor old Dada has been piling on the pounds, the boy remains as skinny as ever.

I don’t know what his secret is. But if he puts it in a book, he’ll be a millionaire. Frankly, I’d buy it myself.