by Woog
Mrs Woog is a mouthy forty-something housewife from the burbs. She writes the popular blog WoogsWorld, which is about all kinds of things but mainly what is going on in her head. She covers family, politics, food, travel, some very lame attempts at fashion, social issues, wine, cheese. And laundry. She is pretty much running late all the time, and will more often or not turn up somewhere with food spilt down her top. Mrs Woog is married to Mr Woog, and they have two gorgeous yet lively sons. In a former life Mrs Woog was a primary school teacher.
Visit Mrs Woog’s blog @ woogsworld.com.
Certain names and details have been changed to protect the innocent and guilty alike.
First published in 2016
Copyright © Kayte Murphy 2016
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.
Allen & Unwin
83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.allenandunwin.com
Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available
from the National Library of Australia
www.trove.nla.gov.au
ISBN 9781760113735
eISBN 9781952533594
Typeset by Bookhouse
Cover images: Getty Images, Shutterstock and Masterfile
For John
CONTENTS
Introduction: She who cannot, blogs
PART ONE: SCHOOL DAYS, SCHOOL DAYS
1 The kindy kid
2 Smurfs, Swatches and Strawberry Shortcake
3 The Pride of Erin
4 Pretty in fluoro pink
5 Social death
6 Young love (of the non-equine kind)
7 Puberty blues in a flesh-coloured bra
8 School camp: clogs, cordial and culture
9 The smell of teen spirit
PART TWO: JOINING THE CIRCUS
10 Not my monkeys
11 Who’s who in the staffroom
12 How to be a pain-in-the-arse parent
13 Forgotten Valley
14 To Miss with love
15 The inspection
PART THREE: AT THE SCHOOL GATE
16 Kiss and drop
17 Parents and citizens, unite
18 What’s on your sandwich?
19 It started with an itch . . .
20 O Captain!
21 We are gathered here today
22 Let us pray (or not)
23 Crime and punishment
24 Life is a celebration!
25 So fancy
26 What school mum is that?
27 The (school) tie that binds
28 The dog ate my homework
29 Please report to the office
30 Programming the perfect child
31 School excursions
32 Are we there yet?
Acknowledgements
INTRODUCTION
SHE WHO CANNOT, BLOGS
My name is Mrs Woog and I am a mummy blogger. I know this because I have two sons and I write on the internet. Originally known as a ‘mommy’ blogger, we first became an acknowledged genre of writing back in the early 2000s in the United States, where bored moms began personal websites, or weblogs as they were originally called, to connect with others in the same boat (that being a boat often full of tediousness and monotony, which can come along when you are drowning in small children). All of a sudden there was someone out there listening, nodding along and offering advice. Communities were formed and continue to grow to this day.
In 2008 a well-meaning friend suggested I start my own blog. I couldn’t see any reason not to, so that year I opened a blogspot account and typed in the title WOOGSWORLD. It was a nod to my husband’s unusual Hungarian surname, and a nod to the brilliant and classic 1992 film Wayne’s World.
Armed with very little enthusiasm, I wrote six posts that year. I selected the moniker Mrs Woog because, at the time, I wanted to remain anonymous on the internet.* (And I believed that the chance anyone would read this mummy blog was very remote.)
The year 2009 was very quiet for my blog: I wrote one post. It was about my neighbours, who I suspected were swingers. You see, I was beginning to go quite stir crazy, and cabin fevery, and was desperate for adult social intercourse. I began talking a lot to religious folk who knocked on my door. When the two boys were down for their naps, I had forty-five minute conversations with Indian call-centre workers who would phone to sell me stuff.
Then something happened. Something that would go on to change the course of my career. Something that would prevent me from thinking about opening a bottle of wine at 11 am ever, ever again.
I was up at the local Blockbuster and rented a film called Julie & Julia. It was the true story of Julie Powell, who had also dug herself into a deep rut. Inspired by food and the work of famed cook Julia Child, she vowed to blog through Child’s cookbook Mastering the Art of French Cooking.
T’was like a fire had been lit in my belly. Of course! I would resurrect my blog and write a story on it every single day for a year. But what would I write about? I wasn’t doing anything particularly inspiring. I mean, a night down at the local beer garden with a pram and the old ball and chain was okay, but it certainly wasn’t going to be riveting reading. So I decided just to write what was in front of me. I added a tagline ‘Making the most out of the mundane’, and dutifully wrote a piece every day. But at the end of the year, much like Forrest Gump, I just kept going.
It’s a funny way to find your real passion and your true calling. I ended up just where I needed to be: I am a writer. In the chapters that follow you will see how I needed to go through the other chapters of my life, before I could get to the start of this one.
She who cannot, blogs. And that is just fine by me.
But I am not only a blogger, I am also a former primary school teacher.
I finished high school in 1991, and to say that I was a disappointment to my parents is putting it very, very lightly. I had spent the last two years of school trying to avoid going. I was a disgrace to the establishment, as will become clear through the chapters of this book.
The day the HSC results arrived—in the old fashioned way, via Australia Post—I stood in the dining room in front of my parents, whose faces were flushed with excitement. They had paid a lot of money for my world-class education and were expecting great things. My older sister had performed brilliantly (and, later, my younger siblings would all do very well indeed).
But I could not share in their enthusiasm, as I was quite aware that the envelope was not going contain wonderful news. Under their expectant gaze, I opened my results to reveal . . .
57.9
Those three little digits were to change the course of my life.
Earlier in the year, I had applied to Charles Sturt University to study journalism, as writing was my first love. My entrance essay, I was told, showed a lot of promise. But my dream of being the modern-day Dorothy Parker vanished as quickly as my parents’ smiles.
I excused myself from the dining room to let them digest this news. Meanwhile, I rang my boyfriend Peter to tell him I was in some pretty deep shit. It turned out h
e was in some pretty deep shit of his own; his tone veering between fury and disbelief, he informed me that he had been awarded the lowest result it was possible to get: the mysterious ‘15 and under’. This meant he had scored less than 15 per cent, and the Department of Education was not going to humiliate him further by revealing his actual mark.
‘There must be some mistake!’ he fumed.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that there probably was no mistake, for even I could barely read his illegible writing.
Perhaps if we hadn’t spent every waking moment with our tongues shoved down each other’s throats, we might both have ended up with more respectable scores. But that’s a moot point. Clearly, I was not destined to be a journalist. It was obvious even then that I didn’t have the focus and drive required to succeed in such a cutthroat industry.
And so I shall be forever grateful for that 57.9. Had I made the grade, there is a fairly high chance that by now I would be a raging alcoholic editing the obituaries section of the Daily Liberal in Dubbo. Not that I mind Dubbo at all. In fact, my oldies owned a pub there when I was young, and I have fond memories of the stench of stale cigarette smoke and the dregs of old KB beer. And, as it happens, my old love Peter—with whom I reconnected many years later—is now enjoying life as the owner of a very popular country pub with his wife and two daughters.
But back to that eighteen-year-old me. What the fuck was I going to do with my life?
It was highly unlikely that I was going to stumble into a young Jamie Packer’s arms at the polo, my bosom heaving in a JAG bodysuit and my long blonde hair rippling in the breeze created by the rush of ponies thundering past. Unfortunately I had boofy brown hair that could never be tamed and hips that came in at about the age of twelve, but not in an admirable way.
No. I was going to have to use my brain and not my body to get ahead. The problem was, my brain had not come into its own just yet.
My parents were adamant that their investment in my education was going to have to pay dividends at some point, and that meant university was non-negotiable. So I scrolled through the list of courses that I might possibly be accepted into.
It basically came down to nursing or primary school teaching. Nursing was never a contender, as the mere sight of blood, pus or vomit sets me off on a dry-retching fit that can last for hours. So I ticked the box to become a primary school teacher with as much consideration as one might devote to choosing toilet paper.
And from this inauspicious beginning grew my immersion in the very particular world that is primary school. It’s a world that has been more or less overlooked in the canon of child-rearing tomes. There are shelves and shelves of baby books. There are whole volumes devoted to advising new parents when to introduce carrot puree into their baby’s diet or how to identify every conceivable rash a baby or toddler might sprout. But where is all the information on raising primary school children?
If you picked up this book thinking it would help you to navigate the wonder years of the infants and primary school playground in any sensible, well-thought-out, heavily researched way, however, I am sorry to tell you that you’re going to get a little less—or a lot more—than you bargained for.
I am going to give it to you from every side**: from my own school days to my time as a primary school teacher, having to deal with annoying, well . . . everything . . . to being the parent of primary school kids myself. And I hope that, along the way, you’ll pause to recall your own days in the old school yard, to recall your favourite teachers—and to enjoy a frank assessment of the trials and tribulations of the modern parent.
_____________
* If you think you can remain anonymous on the internet, you are dreaming.
** Please note that I am NOT a child psychologist in any way, and this book is chockas full of generalisations. And then some.
1
THE KINDY KID
In 1978 our family moved from the country town of Tamworth, where I was born, to a small suburb on the fringes of Sydney. The following year I was to start school at North Richmond Public School and I just could not wait. My older sister having paved the way before me, I felt no fear or apprehension; I was just raring to go.
I chose my own school case. Nowadays school cases would be practically illegal, though I’m sure physios and chiropractors the country over would rub their hands with glee at the thought of all the long-term back and neck injuries they would cause.
These days, school bags are designed with proper attention to posture and spinal care, and there are guidelines to ensure that you don’t screw up their purchase. These include:
• Choose a backpack with padded shoulders.
• Make sure weight is distributed evenly.
• The actual weight of a packed backpack should not exceed 10 per cent of the child’s overall body weight.
• The bag should sit between the tops of the shoulders and the small of the back.
I mean, is it any wonder the incidence of anxiety is on the increase when something as simple as giving your kid a bag to take to school needs so much careful consideration?
But I had a school case. It was bright yellow, with black corners and a snappy black handle. I loved it so much. It was the size of one of Mum’s large Coolabah casks and could fit a Vegemite sandwich and an apple, with room to spare. This was what I was carrying when, clutching Mum’s hand, I arrived for my first day of school.
I was assigned to Miss Babos’s class and would go on to be a proud member of KB. Miss Babos was what every kindy teacher should be: kind, patient and, to my young eyes, resembling a beauty queen. She had long, shiny blonde hair—and talk about fashionable! Wearing long boots and a gored skirt, topped with a skivvy, she looked like she had just stepped off the set of The Brady Bunch. In fact, Miss Babos was the spitting image of Marcia Brady, who was very much a style idol of mine, even at the age of five.
I took to school like a pig to mud. Everything about it was just bloody marvellous, from sitting in little groups, to nap time, to reading in the library at lunchtimes when the days were so hot that the birds fell from the sky. Mum would do canteen duty on occasion, and it was on these days I was the most popular girl in the class, promising icy poles in exchange for six hours of friendship.
I’m afraid to say the icy poles were necessary, for I was not one of those cute, appealing kindy kids. I was the FLK—the funny-looking kid—skinny as a stick of dried spaghetti with wispy, nondescript-coloured hair that stuck up in random clumps, Coke-bottle glasses, and teeth that were growing any which way they pleased, which was mainly out.
It was not only my teeth that stood out. During kindergarten my parents separated, and at the time it was quite the novelty to come from a ‘broken home’. I was the only kid in my class whose parents did not live under the same roof. This made me different, and I can still recall the sympathetic looks I would get from the ladies in the office, the other teachers and mothers of my friends.
(It was not to remain like this forever. My mum would soon marry a marvellous man, the local solicitor who was recently widowed. A step sister and later a half sister would be added to our family. Just what we needed. More kids.)
But there were other kids who were ‘different’. A lot lived in the local housing commission streets, including the notorious (at the time) but inappropriately named Sunnyside Crescent. These were dangerous streets, as students from the local high school would hang around on their bikes, throwing rocks at people who passed by.
We were forbidden ever to go east of Grose Wold Road, unless we were going to Gazza’s Northo Takeaway. But a second eatery was established that year, bringing yet another ‘different’ family to the community. The Mountain Palace opened to much fanfare; it was so exotic and fancy, with red-and-gold flocked wallpaper and real napkins arranged in the shape of fans. The two sons of the proprietors came to my school—and back in 1980 racism was rife. Cries of ‘Ching Chong Chinaman’ followed them everywhere they went. It was my first exposure
to racism, and even then I knew it was wrong.
Another notable thing that happened to me during my kindergarten year was my first encounter with a penis. I had finished up another hard day of identifying colours and operating scissors and, together with my sister, was trotting down Pecks Road towards home. As we passed the local high school, a place where demountable classrooms went to die, we were approached by a teenage boy, who asked whether we would like to see a cocky.
Of course we wanted to see a cocky! Who wouldn’t?
So he pulled down his pants and wagged his penis at us.
That was it?! Disappointed, we continued on our way, swinging our spine-damaging cases in the afternoon sun.
Later, over dinner, Mum asked us how our day was.
‘This boy said he would show us his bird, but he showed us his willy instead,’ I complained.
For some reason this set Mum off. She made a series of furious phone calls, and the next day the young man was formally identified and chastised. We were told that we had to walk home via William Street from now on.
North Richmond was your typical Aussie suburb, a place where your parents would write a note and give you a few bucks, and you could go up to the milk bar and fetch their cigarettes for them. And as in many other typical Aussie suburbs, footy was worshipped far more than any religion. My Western Suburbs Magpies jumper was my most treasured possession. If you had asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would reply, ‘Tommy Raudonikis,’ with a completely straight face.
No one was concerned about childhood obesity in those days, because it was so rare. Most of the kids were long and lean, growing up on a diet of proper food and plenty of outdoor activities. We were allowed to watch The Wide World of Disney each Sunday night for an hour and that was it. The rest of the time, we had to be outside. Even at the age of five, we were told to bugger off and explore. Luckily we lived in a cul-de-sac with a creek bubbling away at the bottom of it, so there was always plenty to do. Unfortunately, many of our chosen pursuits resulted in trips to the local hospital to be stitched up after stepping on smashed glass in the creek or to get your noggin put back together after connecting face first with the bitumen when a bike jump went completely wrong.
