A new year arrives and with it, a flood of new year’s resolutions. My social media is currently awash with declarations to get thinner, fitter and take up skydiving; to “love, laugh and live more” (whatever that actually means); and one friend who will be “taking time out to find herself” (I am currently battling the urge to ask if she’s tried looking up her backside).

What exactly is the point of these public declarations of personal development? Personally, the best I’m hoping for is no Ofsted and a few more good nights out on beer and curry before Trump gets cross with someone and lunges for the button - but I see no reason to share this.

However, social media is a stern master and clearly it demands some kind of statement of intent. This is important, since we no longer wonder whether we will turn out to be the hero of our own lives: we know it. We are bombarded daily with proof that we are important; Twitter followers, Instagram likes, Facebook comments, all allowing us to shape our own narrative, and direct and star in the show. What this does is create an illusion of control; a belief that we can sculpt our lives into an idealised image and that, as parents, we can do the same for our children.

#makingmemories

We are constantly confronted with ways in which to help make childhood “magic”: mischievous elves on shelves; embossed paper to write to tooth fairies; theme parks that promise to deliver a world of imagination because “you can’t put a price on happiness” (you can: it’s £25-a-head plus hugely overpriced drinks and sweets). Regardless of the fact that creating magic memories is limited by the adult’s imagination (almost always inferior to the child’s), we still buy into it. We see people’s timelines filled with soft-focus images of smiling children embossed with the tagline #makingmemories.

In reality, memory is no respecter of magic moments. You can spend a small fortune on a trip to Disneyland, showering your offspring with firework displays, water-park shows and VIP lunches with Mickey Mouse, and the chances are their only memory of the week will be falling off a bunk bed.

Actual childhood memories are much more likely to be of the times when adults weren’t around - when Darren found that dead bird; falling in your friend’s fish pond; competitions to see who could hold ice cream on their front teeth the longest.

So when the next-door class are all hunting for the abominable snowman within a winter wonderland and yours are doing a spelling test next to a wall display that looks like a cotton wool glitter monster vomited on the wall, don’t worry too much. Just teach them to read and then convince them they want to go off and read more - a much more secure path into magic than some stupid elf on a shelf.

Jo Brighouse is a primary school teacher in the Midlands