Two little girls in colourful tights, their hair tied high in bouncing bunches gave me a quick hug and walk into Room Three.

“You can go now Mum. Bye.”

I remember walking back up Barbadoes Street, in central Christchurch, eyes swimming and brimming over as my five-year-old girls launched themselves into the absorbing world of schooling at Christchurch East School.

A couple of years later, we had moved as a family to North India. The English Medium School with strict uniforms and classmates all struggling with the absurdly inconsistent but wonderful world of written English was not a great way forward for our two who were already avid readers. So after a couple of months there, we launched into home-schooling for several years. I loved the opportunity to share learning with my children — particularly our units on the agricultural cycles of Himachal Pradesh, when we spent time with our neighbours picking peas, watching winnowing and trying our hand at milking cows. Our sojourn in Delhi for several months in 2010 was a great opportunity to focus on Mughal India and some hilarious play performances, visits to the intricate architecture of the Red Fort and discussions about global inequalities.

Our twins flourished and continued to read prolifically and when we moved to another North Indian town, they dived into the learning opportunities of Woodstock, a 160-year-old international school. The last seven years in Mussoorie included a class trip to Lucknow to study the Indian independence movement versus the British Raj, many hikes in the Indian Himalaya, learning computer code, editing the school newspaper, the marvels of chemistry labs and diving into the beauty of English literature.

A fortnight ago, Shar, elegant in a turquoise and black sari and Shanti, in a hand-embroidered green sari, walked across the stage to receive their high-school graduation certificates. They have learned lots, worked hard, struggled with calculus, shone in many areas, and now after 13 years at school, are poised for the next season of tertiary study in New Zealand. Both their grandmothers from New Zealand joined us to celebrate. My heart felt full and happy. And 13 years after I waved them off at Christchurch East School my eyes were swimming again. Once more I hugged them close, then I let them go again. I watch the unfurling koru of each child’s life with surprise, wonder, occasional consternation — but most of all gratefulness. 

Tui Motu magazine. Issue 218, August 2017: 32