How old is the maths tutor?

A Parenting Story of Calm Chaos and GCSEs

This post follows on quite nicely from my one last week about my son and his no filter and the fact he talks loudly.

Not only does this story capture the essence of what I was talking about last week, it also captures (or at least I hope it does) the “calm chaos” that happens in our house.

It was my husband who entitled it calm chaos because what does happen is chaos, absolute chaos. But I am very much in control of it (that’s what I tell myself anyway!) and I am very much calm in these situations now.

It sounds weird. And it is. But I really hope I do the day justice in describing it, because it’s a good indicator of what life is like for us.

This post is also very much dedicated to my daughter who recently passed her GCSEs. She gained a pass in Maths, which we knew was going to be hard. She did it with the help of a maths tutor who came to our house every week over the last school year.

There were times when the maths tutor coming did all our heads in. She was lovely, she really was. But it was a big commitment, both financially and in time.

So here goes….. this is our calm chaos.

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It was a PD day (inset day, teacher training day – whatever you like to call it) for my son.

He had been at his dad’s for the weekend, so normally his dad would drop him at school on the Monday morning and I would pick him up from school on the night. As it was a PD day, I had arranged for my son to be dropped at my mam’s house at 8am. My mam would bring him to mine because she was also picking up my daughter and taking her to school for her morning exam. So my son arrived at 8am with my mam. And my daughter left at 8:05am with my mam.

Why, you might ask, wasn’t I taking my daughter to her exam? Well, there isn’t much my mum can help out with when it comes to my son. He rarely wants to be looked after by her on her own. So my mum helps me out by doing little jobs like this that just relieve some of the pressure.

I worked in the morning while my son watched wrestling on the TV. My daughter came home from her morning exam at 11am. Once I had finished work, I made us all dinner. Then my daughter went back to school at 12:45pm for her afternoon exam…. this time I dropped her off.

I went out in the afternoon with my son and my mam. My son took his bike to the park. We spent a lot of time there, messing around in the woods. We got filthy. When we got home, my son decided to have a shower followed by a bath. I have no idea why he had both, but I never say no. Bathing and showering have been such a huge issue for him, so as soon as he suggests one, no matter what time of day it is, I get it on.

He spent around 15 minutes in the shower and then half an hour in the bath. This is great, but he likes me sat with him. So I sat in the bathroom chatting to him. Well—he chatted to me, and I responded. Every single time. No zoning out, no pauses, no gaps. I always have to respond, quickly and enthusiastically.

When he got out, he wanted to play football. Which we did. Then it was teatime for the kids. After tea, my daughter went upstairs, and again I played football with my son. My husband came in from work and we had our tea. Fairly early by our standards, because my daughter’s maths tutor was coming at 7:15pm.

This maths tutor had been coming once a week since September and she had really helped my daughter’s confidence with maths.

It is always a bit odd having a stranger come into your house every week, but over time the tutor became more than just that. She was almost like a friend to my daughter, which was nice. Usually the tutor came 6–7pm. That was perfect because my son went to bed at 7:30. It allowed him chance to eat his supper after she had gone and then go to bed.

But today, because it was exam period and the tutor was squeezing everyone in, she was coming later.

I knew this was going to be hard for my son. It would totally disrupt his routine. But it was the last time she was coming, so I knew I needed to make it work for my daughter. She sacrifices so much because of my son, and I wanted to know I’d done my absolute best for her with these exams.

At 6:30, the tutor texted to say she was running late and wouldn’t be here until 7:30pm. I felt sick. But I told myself: I can do this. Then she texted me maths papers to print out for while she was here.

Now, when things happen outside of my son’s control, those things cause him a lot of anxiety. The tutor coming causes him anxiety. The tutor coming later causes him more. The tutor changing the time at the last minute causes him even more. The tutor asking me to do something on top of that—more again.

So you can imagine. This was all building up and building up inside him.

I knew the way to help him through it: be with him. Entertain him. Answer everything he asks. By him controlling me, his anxiety reduces. It’s hard to explain, even for me, but I know it works.

And it works well enough that we haven’t had a meltdown in a while. I can sense when things are tense, and I know what I need to do.

So here I was, needing to print something out, but my son wanted to talk to me. I waited for his instruction: “You can go now.” This is one of his favourite phrases. He delivers it in a way that used to really upset me. Waving his hand, deadpan voice, like shooing a dog out of a room: “You can go now.” But I’ve learnt this is just his way of communicating. It means he’s ready and able to be alone for a little while.

Eventually, he said it. “You can go now.” So I rushed to the printer. Got it sorted. Laid everything out on the table ready. Then it hit me: my daughter hadn’t been downstairs since tea.

I went to check.

She was asleep in bed. Koolpak on her head. Migraine incoming.

Disastrous.

Normally, I’d have cancelled the tutor. But this was our last session before her maths exam. I woke her. She was not happy. From downstairs, my son shouted for me. My daughter shouted at me. My son came upstairs, laughed at his sister. She shouted at him. He shouted at me.

And all I wanted was a cup of tea.

By the time the tutor arrived at 7:30pm, my daughter was crying. My son was like a madman. And me? I was holding on by my fingertips, telling myself: calm chaos, calm chaos.

I got my daughter sat with the tutor. Took my son to the living room. We started to play bowls. Then we coloured in. Then we played a game on his iPad. He talked the whole way through. I responded to every single thing. I looked at my husband, sat on the sofa. He looked absolutely traumatised. This next hour was crucial. The problem was my son was usually in bed by this point. So I suggested: he could stay up till 8. At 8, he’d get into bed, and I’d sit with him in his room while the tutor was here. She’d leave at 8:30, and then he could go to sleep. He agreed.

So from 7:30 to 8 we played bowls, coloured, iPad games. At 8pm, we went to his bedroom. He got into bed with his iPad. I sat on the tiny stool by his bed. I knew he wouldn’t be right until the tutor had gone. We could hear them, chatting maths outside his room. But all in all, it had gone okay. No big disasters. (Other than my daughter crying, but we got past that) And then my son, who talks fairly loud, asked:

“How old is the maths tutor? She looks about 50 years old.”

I took a sharp intake of breath.

Please don’t let her have heard that.

Now I knew she wasn’t 50. Definitely over 40, but nowhere near 50. And if she’d heard, she’d definitely be offended. I know I would be. When I went out to say goodbye, I pretended nothing had happened. I gave her a present and a card to say thanks. I praised my daughter for getting through her last session. Then I went back to sit with my son, got him sorted for bed. By the time he was asleep it was 9pm.

At 9:30pm, I finally relaxed.

I had been on the go since 8am. That’s 13 hours. 780 minutes. Every single one of them with my son.

And that, right there, is our calm chaos.

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Of course, my daughter passed her exam. Thanks to her hard work, and the tutor who built her confidence. That one-to-one time was worth its weight in gold. And I spent my weight in gold, and then some.

So thank you to the tutor who became part of our lives for a while. A tutor, a mentor, even a life coach at times. And who probably left our house feeling like she was 50 years old — even if she wasn’t, as my son thought.