Part 21 of 29 in Helping Your Children Learn: What Parents Need to Know← Part 20Part 22 →
I’ve been thinking a lot about the years before the timetable takes over our children’s lives—a period often overshadowed by the anxiety of parental expectations and societal pressures. Last week, I found myself in a conversation with a parent who was anxious about her three-year-old’s “progress.” She was concerned that her daughter hadn’t yet mastered phonics, despite being bombarded with apps and weekend classes. It struck me how early the race begins for so many, and how misguided our approach can be.
John Holt, an American educator, once pointed out that children often do their best learning before they ever set foot in a classroom. This isn’t because school is inherently flawed, but because in the early years, nobody mistakes performance for understanding. Yet, here we are, in India, where even the parents of toddlers are being sold the idea that their children need to be ahead before they even start school. Nursery interviews, phonics apps, and endless classes—all in the name of not falling behind. But behind what, exactly? These children have been learning since the moment they were born.
A toddler learns with their whole body. They pour water and miss, line up chappals in a neat row, insist on hearing the same story repeatedly until they can recite it by heart. This is real learning—hands-on, experiential, and deeply personal. When an adult swoops in to button a child’s shirt because “we’re running late,” they’ve solved a morning problem but stolen an opportunity for learning. Sometimes, it’s worth being late. Sometimes, you give those extra five minutes so that the button can be theirs.
What does a small child really need from us during these formative years? It’s not structured lessons or skill assessments. They need us to talk about what’s right in front of us—the auto rickshaw passing by, the stray dog on the street, the rain tapping on the tin shed roof. Language flourishes in shared experiences, not in rote learning.
Let them help, even if it means washing rice poorly or tearing coriander leaves into tiny, uneven pieces. Competence is born from the ashes of incompetent help. Read the same book until you’re bored to tears, but understand that she isn’t. Each repetition builds a home of familiarity and comfort in her mind, a place she can explore, settle, and learn from.
And for goodness’ sake, let’s stop quizzing them. Asking “What color is this?” repeatedly teaches them that conversation is an exam. Instead, name the color when it matters, and let it go. Protect their sleep and unstructured floor time more fiercely than any class. A tired, overscheduled toddler may seem “advanced” in a circle, yet falls apart at home.
If you do nothing else before school starts, do this: don’t hand them a screen to buy yourself an hour, and don’t hand them a class to feel a sense of seriousness. Sit on the floor for twenty minutes without the intent to improve the game. That unhurried twenty minutes is the essence of parenting. It doesn’t look like education, but it is its root.
This is where the real discomfort lies—realizing that we’ve been running a race that doesn’t exist. We’ve been measuring progress by the wrong metrics. The years before the timetable are precious, and they lay the foundation for everything that follows. Let’s protect them fiercely.
In contemplating these things, I often find parallels between investing in startups and nurturing young minds. Just as an entrepreneur needs room to explore, fail, and try again, so does a child. The best startups I’ve backed were not those that followed a strict plan but those that had the freedom to pivot, adapt, and grow organically. Our children deserve the same latitude.
So, as you sit with your child this week, ask yourself: What can they do that you’ve been doing for them simply because you’re faster? Give them the chance to button that shirt, to pour that glass of water, to tell their own story. These are the moments that truly matter—the moments before the timetable takes over.