Having been at preschool in Sydney, Conor had no trouble with Junior Infants, although his accent did cause problems. 'I was born in a trailer', he brightly informed his new teacher, or so she thought. Over the next few days, to her increasing confusion, he chattered on about myriad aspects of Life in a Trailer: the weather, the friends, the food. Mindful of the school's inclusive policy towards Travellers and other marginal groups, Mrs G listened with sensitivity and interest. It was only when he said 'my dad was born in a trailer but my mum was born in Ireland' that she realised he meant Australia.

But as Declan pointed out with remorseless logic, it's easy for Conor because everyone in Junior Infants is new, whereas in second class, he and a Chinese boy were the only new pupils in the large class of 34. On the first day,they were shunned, until Ms B announced that unless the others played with the new boys they would all have double homework.

As returnees who had never attended an Irish school before, I had expected an informal induction into school policy etc. But apart from being allowed to give the boys a preview of their classrooms before term began, we got no assistance in settling in. I had to ask about everything, from where to get the uniform to where the playing fields were, and was met with indifference or even disdain, as if it was ridiculous that I did not automatically know these things. Although I specifically enquired about the local soccer club, pointing out that Declan's chances of assimilation could depend on it, only a chance overheard remark led to his getting enrolled on the last day of registration.

At Conor's level things worked a bit better. A month into term, the P & C organised a quaintly old-fashioned cheese & wine evening, complete with cocktail sticks of cubed cheese, a pickled onion and a green olive. I used the occasion to distribute invitations to his fifth birthday party. Selecting his 'friends' was tricky. As parents were barred from the classroom, I had no idea what face went with which mum. I sneaked back after-hours and took down the names from the coat-hooks, then got a quick rating from Conor. Aidan? (Scornfully) He's a cry-baby. Cian? He pushed me... long indignant story about injustice in the yard. Jack? He's not my friend anymore ( not since he defected from Pokemon to Digimon). Patrick? He's a cry-baby but I still like him. Hooray. I salvaged half a dozen out of the assorted thugs and wimps he described, and set about nailing their parents over the pickled onions with all the ruthless dedication of a mother desperate to line up allies and avert the dreaded weekend chant, 'I'm bored'.

The absence of girls is one big difference from their Sydney government primary; homework is another. At eight, and for the first time ever, Declan gets a solid half an hour a night - and what a transforming influence! English ("underline the adjective" - the wha'? yes, grammar still exists here!), spelling ( another revolutionary idea), times tables, reading aloud, dictation, and, his favourite, Busy at Maths. In seven weeks I have witnessed his academic standard improve by a year at least. He was never really challenged before, and he's thriving on it.

As with almost everything in Ireland, none of this comes cheap. Although national schools are technically free, I paid about $400 for books and even more for uniforms. Irish primary schools only receive about 63% of the average government funding within OECD countries and are grossly under-maintained, with a laughable three civil servants responsible for the upkeep of every school in the state.

Staff are also hard to find, which means you can get some real loopers. My sister, who has four children, meticulously sewed on name tags to their dozens of articles, only to have them ripped out by a raving gym teacher who insisted that each tag had to be a) embroidered and b) use exactly 40 stitches per tag. Another sister was surprised to be asked to provide four extra socks. They were for the legs of the child's chair, 'to stop the teacher's head hurting'.

Although the days of repressed religious leathering children are thankfully long gone, teachers here demand - and get - absolute obedience, a politically incorrect notion in our old school. The adjustment wasn't easy. Declan somehow got into Bad Company. One day I found his lunch uneaten, because he'd had to spend the half-hour standing outside the principal's office, he didn't know why, he'd made noise in line or something, messing to amuse the others. The teacher's wrath increased day by day, culminating in a tart note in his Homework Journal asking me to Please Explain to him how to show Respect.

Dazed at his rapid decline to Class Delinquent, I went to see her. She noted blisteringly his 'utter lack of self-discipline'. The child who since the age of three had displayed an unnerving level of concentration and self-reliance, who had only last week persevered with a house of cards despite every sabotage of his pesky brother, until he got it to four storeys? Some instinct kept me silent. 'We have Rules', she hissed. 'Yes', I began, 'the problem is I don't think he knows what they are, and nor do I, it's different in Australia...' 'Oh yes', she snorted. 'I've seen the likes of what they do in Australia.'

She brandished a page headed 'Rules' in front of me, on which I could only make out STOP LOOK AND LISTEN, which sounded more like road safety. 'If you give me a copy, I'll make sure he understands them', I said, ingratiatingly.. 'Copy? I don't have copies.' But now that I'd admitted our heinous handicap, of coming from Australia, she seemed mollified. 'His work is fine. No problem with that. He just has to Obey the Rules', and she flounced back into the classroom.

That night Declan and I tried to divine the Rules. We decided that if he never spoke in the line, sat up straight looking straight ahead and NEVER argued (his great talent), he might make it to mid-term break without being sin-binned. I explained that once you got a Bad Name, you could be blamed for practically everything. If however he could keep his head down for 3 weeks and subvert the typecasting, he would avoid a lot of strife AND get a new game for his game-boy.

In week two, he came home with a certificate, for improved handwriting. We did a dance around the kitchen. The next certificate was for Being a Good Listener. Then disaster. He forgot his maths book and couldn't do his homework. To his surprise and relief,instead of blasting him as she had before, Ms B merely said he could do it in the break.

The tension in week three was terrible. I was mortally afraid she'd make some mistake in dinosaur history or something, which he, ever the pedant, would feel obliged to point out. But on Friday, when I picked him up, he was radiant. From behind his back he produced a huge trophy: Boy of the Week. He had one final Certificate: for Knowing the Rules.

It's miles away from the ethos at his Australian school, which aims more at encouraging the under-achievers than celebrating the successful ones. I realise it's draconian, and could be very bad for a child with special needs. But being so publicly commended has done wonders for his self-esteem.. He intends to keep his handwriting neat, just because it now gives him satisfaction. He is as spirited and questioning (and cussed) as ever outside school, but he has learned a lot about self-control. And best of all, after a failed attempt to implicate him in a playground stoush, the heavies have dropped him in disgust and he's got lots of other, nicer,friends now.

His recent progress has even given him the confidence to cope with being thrown in the deep end in the Irish language. When he recently reeled off the months of the year 'as gaeilge', the class spontaneously applauded. 'Kangaroo-feet' had finally claimed his place.