I thought I had sat my last exam and didn't need to fret again about revision. No more worrying about grades and marks and what I was going to be when I grew up. No more going for days without sleep, Eastenders or baths in a bid to optimise my revision time.

I put aside my books and was looking forward to stress-free existence poring over Avon catalogues, but I was wrong.

Haris, my son is just a baby but this month he faced his first major hurdle after learning to walk, talk and finish a complete meal - his SATS. Even

though I did primary school teaching I forgot what a nightmare these tests are for parents.

All your nightmares come flooding back. You remember how your parents would go on about Mr So-and-So's son who passed 25 O-levels at grade A

and went off to Cambridge University at the age of three.

And don't talk to me about the ones who went off to become doctors. To normal people Doogie Howser MD was a fictional teenage whizzkid who qualified as a doctor aged 12.

In our house he was a constant reminder of our inability to pass maths, physics and chemistry, the personification of our failure, a figure to

be feared and reviled.

Now I realise, of course, parents are in a sticky position. If they don't encourage their offspring they will go off the rails and want to become something terrible like pop stars, and if they put too much pressure on them they will also go off the rails and become reporters.

But you have to admit there is nothing more off-putting than hearing parents go on about how brilliant their child is. Asian parents in

particular are so status-obsessed.

'My little one draws fantastic pictures', and 'his writing is so neat', are normal. It's good parents praise and encourage their children but coming out with statements like: 'Mine is a genius with a reading age of 20' when he's not been born yet, is, quite frankly, a bit silly.

Anyway, I wanted Haris to do his best, so I sat with him and asked a few simple questions. "What is 13 minus 10?" I asked.

"Can I watch Dextor's Lab now?" was the reply.

We struggled on for 15 minutes with me explaining about Venn diagrams and capacity and him fidgeting and looking at the walls.

In the end he took the pencil and I grinned in triumph. At last, a breakthrough. But then he doodled a picture of Dextor and ran away. I threw my hands up in exasperation. I consulted child psychology books.

"Oh Haris, I DON'T want you to do any work!" I said in triumph, waiting for him to grab Key Stage One Maths from my hand in ill-concealed

enthusiasm.

"Good," came his nonchalant reply.

Oh well, you can lead a horse to water but you can't make him think.