Fewer people with more qualifications can’t make childcare better

Childcare qualifications are great, but they don’t help you look after more children at once, as the government seems to be hoping.

I’m one of those people who has more qualifications than sense. These include a PhD in German, a pretend MA from Oxford, and that much-coveted rarity, a GCSE in Esperanto. I’m never quite sure how I ended up with these. It’s not as though I started life qualification-hungry. I was never one of those middle-class girls whose Brownie uniform was covered in yellow and black badges of achievement (I had one badge – the artist one, a pencil – and that was only because the uniform was a hand-me-down from a cousin, who’d drawn the badge-winning picture years earlier). I guess I reached a point, qualification-wise, where I had to make up for lost time and subsequently went to extremes. Still, at least it means I’m great when it comes to looking after hundreds of kids. Little ones? Bring ‘em on! I’m the one with the certificates therefore I can be trusted to handle tots galore (that’ll show all the mean girls who looked down on me just because I never got that stupid “homemaker” badge).

I’m being silly, of course (did I mention my NVQ in silliness?). I struggle with looking after just two small people, who happen to be my own. Therefore I am confused by the government’s current proposal to increase the ratio of children to carers in nurseries providing carers’ qualifications “meet new standards”. Just how is this meant to work?

I realise we’re not just talking about any old qualifications; these will be actual childcare ones, which make you better at looking after other people’s children. Hence it would be wrong to argue that actually, some nursery workers will end up too busy thinking about basket-weaving, astrophysics and conversational French to take care of their charges (worryingly, you don’t seem to need any childcare qualifications when it comes to your own kids; I for one was amazed at being permitted to leave the hospital, newborn in arms, without so much as a multiple-choice quiz). Qualifications in childcare and early years education are useful, I’m sure. All the same, I have this feeling that more in-depth knowledge of child development, the Early Years Foundation Stage and/or the practicalities of nursery work does not necessarily make you better at caring for more children. It’s just a qualification, right? From what I understand you end up with extra skills, not additional arms and legs plus eyes in the back of your head (I mean, there could be a module on herding sheep that’s adapted for playpens, but let’s be honest – herding children is, and always will be, more like herding cats).

I don’t wish to suggest that childcare is not suitable for the over-educated. I don’t hold with the idea that one can be too clever for children (although by the same token, I’ve never bought into the idea that “only boring people find children boring”. If it didn’t sound vaguely sinister, I’d say that kids are an acquired taste). I just don’t believe knowing extra stuff makes it easier to deal with one two-year old needing a wee, another wanting a cuddle, a third having stuck a crayon up his nose and a fourth vomiting on the first (who by now has wet herself). And that’s just the current state of affairs. We’re now talking about adding Kids Five and Six into the mix (Five is currently drawing on your walls in permanent marker while Six has decided to try and flush her knickers down the toilet). Despite the extra qualifications, your carer is in trouble. And yes, you could argue that all that’s needed is more effective discipline but … well, if you think that, good luck to you.

So why is this being proposed? Well, apparently it works in France, and to be fair, French children neither throw food nor talk back, which certainly sounds promising on the child development front. But then such children grow up to be French adults, and I wouldn’t have thought our government would be in favour of that. Moreover, according to the Institute for Public Policy Research, the French statistics are misleading, not least because most French children under three are not in childcare anyhow (thanks, it could be argued, to more generous parental leave and home care subsidies).

So if it’s not about being French, is it about saving money? Does the government’s proposal make financial sense? I guess it does, at least if you’re looking for a way in which to appear to be doing something about the cost of childcare without spending a penny yourself. As we all know, childcare is expensive. It should be. Looking after children is incredibly important. All the same, there is profit in it. It strikes me that however much we discuss childcare not being “affordable”, most of the nurseries I’ve encountered are expensive and over-subscribed, yet the staff are often paid little and forced to work uncertain shift patterns. I’m not convinced any savings would be passed on to parents or that workers would find themselves rewarded for all the additional work they would be taking on. Moreover, even if claims that pay would increase while fees dropped are correct, that’s small comfort to those who would find themselves “under-qualified” and supposedly surplus to requirements.

Of all the things this proposal could be about – saving money, emulating the cherry-picked country of the day, elevating the status of nursery workers, getting more women out to work - I don’t think it’s the welfare of children. Writing in the Guardian, Elizabeth Truss MP claims that parents will be given “the confidence they crave from early years education”. Well, Elizabeth, I don’t know about confidence, but I will tell you one thing – paragraphs such as the following strike fear into my heart:

Simply put, quality matters more than quantity. We will not force professionals to take more children than they want to, but it is self-defeating for this country to put a ceiling on pay by having the toughest restrictions in Europe. Where providers face a choice between hiring more staff or hiring better-paid staff with greater ability, I want them to be allowed to pick the vastly preferable second option.

Quality, quantity? We are talking about workers and we are talking about young lives. I might be a middle-class, over-qualified fusspot who farms out her children while she bumbles about living the career woman dream, but I’m not made of stone, and nor, more importantly, are my children. I want them to have cuddles, dammit. I want them to be cared for by people with whom they can form a close relationship. Do you know what bothers me when I pick up my son? It's not the fact that someone’s written “phonic of the week” on the whiteboard when it should in fact be “phoneme” (well, okay, that does bother me, but not that much). What really gets to me is seeing a child crying when there’s no one with arms free to pick him or her up. It’s horrible. And it makes me question the fact that I use nursery at all. It makes me hate myself for not being able to afford to employ a nanny or to stop working. It makes me forget that childcare is a fudge and that for most people it’s never been the 1950s upper middle-class dream that the Daily Mail throws in women’s faces on a daily basis. Hard decisions are made and children suffer. I’m not sure I’ll ever have “confidence” in the structures that are currently on offer, but I don’t want them to be made even worse. In order to thrive, people need people. If we can forget something as basic as that, then our qualifications aren’t worth the paper on which they’re written.

David Cameron visiting a London Early Years Foundation nursery. Photograph: Getty Images

Glosswitch is a feminist mother of three who works in publishing.

Qusai Al Shidi/Flickr
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I can’t follow Marie Kondo's advice – even an empty Wotsits packet “sparks joy” in me

I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

I have been brooding lately on the Japanese tidying freak Marie Kondo. (I forgot her name so I typed “Japanese tidying freak” into Google, and it was a great help.) The “Japanese” bit is excusable in this context, and explains a bit, as I gather Japan is more on the case with the whole “being tidy” thing than Britain, but still.

Apart from telling us that we need to take an enormous amount of care, to the point where we perform origami when we fold our underpants, which is pretty much where she lost me, she advises us to throw away anything that does not, when you hold it, “spark joy”. Perhaps I have too much joy in my life. I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

After a while I gave up on this because I was getting a bit too happy with all the memories, so then I thought to myself, about her: “This is someone who isn’t getting laid enough,” and then I decided that was a crude and ungallant thought, and besides, who am I to wag the finger? At least if she invites someone to her bedroom no one is going to run screaming from it, as they would if I invited anyone to my boudoir. (Etym: from the French “bouder”, to sulk. How very apt in my case.) Marie Kondo – should bizarre circumstance ever conspire to bring her to the threshold – would run screaming from the Hovel before she’d even alighted the stairs from the front door.

I contemplate my bedroom. As I write, the cleaning lady is in it. To say that I have to spend half an hour cleaning out empty Wotsits packets, and indeed wotnot, before I let her in there should give you some idea of how shameful it has got. And even then I have to pay her to do so.

A girlfriend who used to be referred to often in these pages, though I think the term should be a rather less flippant one than “girlfriend”, managed to get round my natural messiness problem by inventing a game called “keep or chuck”.

She even made up a theme song for it, to the tune from the old Spiderman TV show. She would show me some object, which was not really rubbish, but usually a book (it may not surprise you to learn that it is the piles of books that cause most of the clutter here), and say, “Keep or chuck?” in the manner of a high-speed game show host. At one point I vacillated and so she then pointed at herself and said, “Keep or chuck?” I got the message.

These days the chances of a woman getting into the bedroom are remote. For one thing, you can’t just walk down the street and whistle for one much as one would hail a cab, although my daughter is often baffled by my ability to attract females, and suspects I have some kind of “mind ray”. Well, if I ever did it’s on the blink now, and not only that – right now, I’m not even particularly bothered that it’s on the blink. Because, for another thing, I would frankly not care to inflict myself upon anyone else at the moment.

It was all a bit of a giggle eight years ago, when I was wheeled out of the family home and left to my own devices. Of course, when I say “a bit of a giggle”, I mean “terrifying and miserable”, but I had rather fewer miles on the clock than I do now, and a man can, I think, get away with a little bit more scampish behaviour, and entertain a few more illusions about the future and his own plausibility as a character, when he is squarely in his mid-forties than when he is approaching, at speed, his middle fifties.

Death has rather a lot to do with it, I suppose. I had not actually seen, or touched, a dead body until I saw, and touched, my own father’s a few weeks ago. That’s what turns an abstract into a concrete reality. You finally put that to one side and gird up your loins – and then bloody David Bowie snuffs it, and you find yourself watching the videos for “Blackstar” and “Lazarus” over and over again, and reach the inescapable conclusion that death is not only incredibly unpleasant, it is also remorseless and very much nearer than you think.

And would you, dear reader, want to be involved with anyone who kept thinking along those lines? I mean, even if he learned how to fold his undercrackers into an upright cylinder, like a napkin at a fancy restaurant, before putting them in his drawer? When he doesn’t even have a drawer?

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war