Today was the first day of my son’s Eiken(英検, the typical exam that Japanese students who learn English takes) select class.
My son recently scored 94% on his English curriculum for nencho (the final year of kindergarten), so I decided to enroll him in the next level—equivalent to the English level of a first grader in elementary school.
Here’s how the class works: after the regular curriculum ends, the select class begins. It lasts for over an hour, which is quite a stretch for a 5-year-old to stay focused. Parents are invited to join for the last 10 minutes or so to hear the teacher’s feedback.
When I entered the classroom, I was surprised to see only four students. Compared to other select classes like soccer, which usually have 10–15 kids, this one felt much smaller and more intimate.
The teacher gave encouraging feedback—actually quite positive. But then the kids, including my son, came back into the room… and I was taken aback. He looked devastated. He had tears in his eyes and ran straight into my arms, quietly sobbing.
This was the first time I had ever seen him like this.
My son is usually good at everything—studying, sports, making friends. He’s a bit of a perfectionist, just like me. That’s why I thought he’d enjoy the challenge of the Eiken select class, even if it was a bit advanced for his age.
Normally, after his soccer select class, he’s beaming with excitement, begging to go to McDonald’s or the sushi place near the kindergarten. But today, he was silent. He just wanted to go straight home.
I felt terrible. All I could do was hold him quietly, without saying much.
And on the train ride home, so many thoughts ran through my head.
Did I push him too hard? Was he perfectly happy just as he was?
But the world always seems to demand more from us.
Still, am I the kind of adult who exceeded all the expectations placed on me? Not really. So how can I expect my 5-year-old son to do what I couldn’t?
I still don’t have a clear answer. But today reminded me that growth doesn’t always come from pushing forward—it sometimes comes from pausing, holding space, and simply being there.
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