On the eve of my children’s exams, my friend sent me the most practical advice for modern parents | Ranjana Srivastava

“You know I could help you with biology,” I say, a little too eagerly. “What are the two types of immunity?” my daughter asks, casually flipping her eggs. “Innate and adaptive.” “What do ribosomes do?” “They translate messenger RNA into amino acids.” “Wow, are you a doctor or something?” she deadpans, before scooping up her eggs and sauntering away, leaving my offer untouched. Next, her younger brother avows that he will fail chemistry. “I can help!” I volunteer. “I did chem at school, you know.” “All good,” he says, shrugging. “But if you ever need help writing a column, just ask.” Chafing, I think they might be taking their cue from their older sibling, now at university. Early in school he adopted a policy of non-interference, which is to say he did not brook my interference. Organised and self-sufficient, he did fine without my input but I wanted a front seat to the performance his teachers lauded. Related: As my son prepares to graduate high school, I’m feeling nostalgic for the many parenting milestones I’ve bid farewell | Vivienne Pearson I itched to read the essays he wrote, the debates he argued and the winning scholarship applications he crafted. But somehow he always forgot to save the drafts or bring home his work. The night before his graduation speech, when I asked to hear it, he retorted I could wait like everyone else. This caused me to grumble that I paid the fees but got no favours. My pitiful plea died the death it deserved. My journey into the crevices of my children’s educational lives deserves context. I am the daughter of a devout academic. Nearly everyone in my Indian family used education as the stairway to success. We are a people devoid of athletes, artists and entrepreneurs and our highest praise is to be called “educated”. It was a foregone conclusion that if there was one area of my children’s lives I would care deeply about, it was their education. I wanted them to benefit from every bit of my abilities, experience and connections. But while they were savvy enough to introduce their friends to me, they themselves were having none of it. By now, I have heard every version of “What would you know?” – and not all as polite! When I complained to a childhood friend, she commiserated before disclosing that her children wouldn’t let her near their college admission essays or even reveal where they were applying. So I proceeded to make a virtue out of a necessity. Earlier this year, I told my kids that their education is in their hands. My job is to provide access and set expectations and, of course, be available when needed, but I am done micromanaging their homework, their devices, their study and their sleep. If they choose to scroll on their phone until midnight and wake up late, they will pay the price. If they make better choices, they will reap the rewards. I quit the parent portals (that I never really used) and mass deleted discursive school emails about every incursion, excursion and wellbeing seminar. I trusted that my hands-off approach to education could not be more dissatisfying than the hands-on one. Without realising it, I was emulating my parents, who when it came to education practised almost a monastic silence. When my brother and I succeeded, they were unfazed. When we failed a subject or wanted to drop out, they were unfazed. They listened, nodded and got on with whatever they were doing. Now I saw that this wasn’t indifferent parenting but parenting of the best kind – implicit trust mixed with ample space to allow us to forge our own path. My new policy has achieved two things. The time not spent dissecting teacher feedback or the minutiae of the humanities curriculum has been more happily spent on conversations about the values we want to live by or what makes for a satisfying career, and less cerebral things like the aesthetics of the eyebrow shave and the broccoli cut. It has been instructive (and humbling) to discover how little my kids “miss” the role I had taken so seriously. They manage their studies, regulate their device use and monitor their bedtime, all while improving their grades. Instead of pleading, “Can you do some work?” I began hearing, “I will be studying in my room.” Instead of the nightly argument about phones, I simply said goodnight and turned in. Now, when they didn’t do well, they were miffed at themselves. When they did well, they had themselves to be proud of. Why didn’t someone convince me earlier that the key to intrinsic motivation was to pull back on extrinsic drivers? Related: As my eldest sits his final school exam, I’m grateful to the fine teachers who helped me parent him | Ranjana Srivastava This month there is abundant advice for Australian students sitting their end-of-school exams. They are (rightly) reminded that their mark is not their destiny and the usual tips on sleep, diet and exercise follow. But in a sign of the times there is just as much advice for the modern parent to manage the assumed high stress of parenting a child sitting the end-of-year exams. Should the parent take leave or keep working? Is it healthier to maintain distance or anticipate a child’s slightest need? How to navigate the line between unreasonable demand and healthy expectation? Of course there are students who need extra wraparound support – and they deserve every bit of it to help them thrive. Australia has one of the highest achievement gaps between advantaged and disadvantaged students. At year 9 level, the gap in attainment is over three years in numeracy and over four years in literacy. It seems as if the neediest students are being left behind while the children of the comfortably off are asking their parents to let go. Meanwhile, I can’t help thinking that reading about managing parental anxiety seems like a recipe for developing anxiety. If it never crossed your mind that your child’s grades reflected your parenting, might the suggestion fuel doubt? All this while psychologists continue to remind us of the enormous value of letting our children figure things out and yes, even fail. On the eve of my children’s exams, my friend, chastened by her own experience, texts me: “Remember to keep your mouth shut and your door open.” It might just be the most practical advice for the modern parent. I am taking it. • Ranjana Srivastava is an Australian oncologist, award-winning author and Fulbright scholar. Her latest book is Every Word Matters: Writing to Engage the Public