59 minutes ago
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May 2, 2026 — 5:00am
Some people say the public education system doesn’t teach children quickly enough, but I believe it teaches them too fast. Take my oldest grandson, Pip. He started school at the beginning of the year and already he’s worldly-wise.
“Hello Bluey,” I said, greeting the stuffed toy which was sitting on the dashboard of my car. My grandson, whom I’d just strapped into his seat, shot me a pitying look. “She’s not real, you know.”
He’s only been in formal schooling for three months, and already it’s like living with Friedrich Nietzsche. What’s next? “God is dead, and I have my doubts about The Wiggles.”
I suppose I have the same lack of faith when it comes to The Wiggles. Do they really all live in the same house and sleep in those skivvies? Do they then cook breakfast while still wearing the same skivvies? Yuck. Launder your clothes, people.
Despite this point of agreement, I wish Pip’s age of innocence could last longer. Six months ago, he lived in an enchanted world. We would serve “tea” (water), poured from a “teapot” (tiny plastic toy), and offer it to our “friends” (a stuffed bear with wonky ears, and a Tigger who has seen better days). We’d blow on the “hot” tea to cool it down, stir in pretend milk (more water), and serve “biscuits” (made from Play-Doh).
Our “friends” always expressed their pleasure and appreciation.
The Easter Bunny, I believe is safe, and so is Santa and the Tooth Fairy. In all three cases, faith brings its own rewards, expressed in chocolate and plastic.
Following the tea ceremony, Tigger would go inside and find Piglet and – if in the mood – they’d decide to have a hard-fought physical battle, pitted against a couple of dinosaurs. These heroes of the Hundred Acre Wood would give speeches, chant songs and fly through the air using jet-propulsion packs – a feat which I don’t remember from the original story. Mostly Tigger and Piglet would win. Or the dinosaurs would win. It would depend on whose side Pip was playing.
Now, what seems like a moment later, I’m loath to suggest a fresh round of the game. I fear I’ll be told that “Tigger and Piglet are not real”, or, worse, that I’ll be given the dreaded teenage eye roll, followed by “Dinosaurs never shared the planet with mammals such as tigers and pigs. Really, Pa, you should learn a little history.”
The teenage eye roll? Already? He’s only five.
The Easter Bunny, I believe is safe, and so is Santa and the Tooth Fairy. In all three cases, faith brings its own rewards, expressed in chocolate and plastic. Elsewhere, Pip continues to rapidly exit childhood’s enchanted forest.
He questions me when I say the bookshop has “millions of copies” of a certain children’s book and sets about counting them in front of me. “They have nine copies, Pa, not millions.” I question a detail in a TV program – “where does Green Goblin moor that Pirate Ship of his?” – only to be told off for this inappropriate demand for verisimilitude. “It’s a kids’ show, Pa.”
Who educates them in this stuff? I can only imagine it’s his teacher who is to blame. Pip, however, is keen to absolve her of any responsibility. Every time he tells me something – “2 + 2 = 4” or “3 +3 = 6” – I ask, “Who taught you that?” and his reply is always the same: “Oh, I just knew it.”
It’s the same reply, 30 years ago, that came from both his father and his uncle, up to a surprisingly mature age. I might ask: “How do you know so much about Monash’s innovative ideas during World War I?”
“Oh, I just knew it.”
“You seem to know a lot about cell biology. Who taught you that?”
“Oh, I just knew it.”
“That university degree of yours? Did anyone help you with that?”
“Oh I just knew it.”
Why teachers bother, when their students come to them with such huge reservoirs of knowledge, I really can’t imagine. Maybe they just like reassuring themselves about their own abilities of recollection.
Since Pip is suddenly so grown up, I decide to teach him chess. There are kids his age from India who regularly wipe the floor with Russian grandmasters, so why not Pip. I tell him about the bishops and the castles and the horses (“They are called knights,” says Jocasta, rather harshly), and we begin to play.
Pip plays well, for about four minutes, at which point his concentration collapses. He reaches under the table and emerges with a plastic dinosaur, which attacks my queen and then my king and knocks them both so that they fly from the table. The dinosaur, vocalised by Pip with a series of roaring noises, then gives my pawns a good going over, until all the pieces – well, mine anyway – are strewn dead over the field of battle.
Pip’s forces remain untouched although – an idea forms in my head – Tigger and Piglet may soon mount a counterattack. Slowly (new knee), I get up from the table to fetch my furry reinforcements.
“I win,” says Pip as I leave, flashing me a winning smile. Maybe, but I think Pa won something too. For a moment at least, the age of enchantment is still alive.
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