The teacher’s feedback made me reflect on Leo, who he is, the job I am doing as his dad, how much of it we are getting right, and what needs to be changed.

This week your teacher told me that you run too much in the classroom. That you find it hard to sit still. That you don’t always make your own decisions.

It was said kindly. Thoughtfully and with care. And I heard it all. But as I walked home afterwards, it sat heavier in me than I expected and made me think…

Two thoughts played out in my mind.

The first was practical.

You do run a lot.
You don’t sit still for longer than a milk bottle at 6am.
You can be easily influenced by your pals.

But is that a problem?

The second was quieter.
I pictured you shuffling around the classroom, being exactly who you are. Curious, observant, testing the edges of the world as you understand it.

And I wondered whether we sometimes get this bit wrong.

Of course, the classroom needs order and yes, boundaries matter.

But beyond that, I can’t help feeling that perhaps we should be loosening the reins on you, not tightening them.

I want you to learn how to move through structured spaces with calm and confidence.
But I never want you to believe that your energy is a problem. Or that your curiosity is inconvenient.
Or that your instinct to explore needs correcting.

To me, those aren’t flaws. They’re signals of life. Of spirit.

What I’ve been thinking about most is how children move together. How you watch each other, copy each other and all fall into step. I’ve learned that this isn’t weakness, it’s biological wiring.

At your age, you’re not trying to disappear into the crowd. You’re learning the shape of it.
Gathering information. Mapping behaviour. Learning the language of belonging.

You copy first. You decide later. That isn’t a failure of independence. It’s the beginning of it.

And still, I feel protective of you. Protective of your edges. Of the parts of you that don’t fit neatly.

I don’t mind you moving with the group. I just never want you to forget that you have a direction of your own. 

I hope you grow up with the awareness to notice when something feels right or wrong for you and the courage to choose accordingly.

Even if it means walking a different way to the crowd.

When this time arrives in your life, it might be a difficult moment, but staying true to yourself is something you’ll never regret. 

This feels like a slight tangent from the school report, but it’s not. It’s about the world you’re learning to live in. And the one I’m responsible for shaping as your dad.

That’s what led my thoughts back to Christmas. I know it’s nearly a month ago, but something about it lingered with me.

Not because it wasn’t magical, it was. But because of the speed of it.
The volume of presents.
The tearing through paper.
The asking for more.
The lack of pause.

And I found myself wondering what I was really teaching you in those moments (not with guilt, just with awareness).

I don’t think I feel guilt, do I?

Was I showing you;-

Contentment or consumption?
Gratitude or expectation?
Magic or excess?

I’m realising more and more that you don’t learn most from what I tell you.
You learn from what I repeat. What I prioritise. What I normalise. What I chase.

So I’m making some quiet promises to myself. And that is to choose more slowly. To create less noise and more meaning. To trade things for experiences. To value memories over materials. To show you that enough is sitting by the fire in the back garden. 

Next Christmas, I want it to be smaller, slower and fewer gifts. Not just for you, for us all.
Maybe we even somewhere else entirely. Really shake things up and start new traditions that better for us…?

This is letter number 20, written to you on the 20th of January.

And if I had to say it simply, it would be this:

The world will teach you how to follow.
I hope I can teach you when not to.

The world will show you what to want.
I hope I can show you how to feel.

The world will move fast.
I hope I can show you the value of stillness.

You’re doing amazingly well dude, at school and at home. We are immensely proud of you. You are one impressive 4-year-old in my view. 

Keep being inquisitive. Let your individual flare be seen.
And keep being the kind, loving little boy you already are.

Always,
Daddy