Primary School Confidential

by Woog

  Is it any wonder that I found it hard to conquer the times tables? I was high.

  There’s no chance of getting carbon monoxide poisoning in the classroom these days. We have temperature-controlled climates. In fact, we have controlled everything.

  There are bus monitors to monitor kids’ behaviour on the bus. Library monitors to make sure things run smoothly in the library at lunchtime. There are school crossing monitors, lunch monitors, line monitors, computer room monitors, canteen monitors, sports monitors and assembly monitors. Everything that can be done in school is now monitored.

  I cannot pinpoint the moment that huge, big sunhats became compulsory, although I do blame them for the lack of freckled-faced kids who now roam the modern playgrounds of our country. Only time will tell whether this practice will lower our incidence of skin cancer as they get older. Peeling, red raw noses were the rule when I was a kid, not the exception. Now, if you send your kids to school with sunburn, well you might as well send in a peanut butter sandwich as well, such is your negligence.

  According to the Royal Children’s Hospital in Melbourne, a child only needs six to seven minutes of direct sunlight per day to get their hit of vitamin D but, of course, only when smothered in sunscreen. If this is just not doable in your situation, you can always contribute to the billion-dollar supplement industry that is currently booming.

  I remember when I was about five years old I had a pill addiction. I discovered our neighbours, the Sugdens, had a stash of fizzy vitamin C tablets that I would eat handfuls of every time I went for a visit. They kept them on a low shelf in their pantry at a time when childproof lids had not been invented. My visits to the Sugdens often ended with an explosive asshole.

  But it is true that today we get our vitamin advice now from washed-out soap stars and the sister of a Hollywood actress. *Head tilt. Smiles empathetically. Holds bottle to camera. Have kids playing in the background with a dog of pure breeding.*

  Or you can just cut up an orange, hand it to your children and tell them there is nothing else if greeted with protest. Better still, peg it out into the stinking hot backyard, set your timer for seven minutes and congratulate yourself on keeping it real.

  26

  WHAT SCHOOL MUM IS THAT?

  One of the strange phenomena that happens when your kid starts primary school is that you are automatically labelled a ‘school mum’.

  Being a school mum can take you right back to the school playground in many ways, because, just like when you were at school yourself, there are different cliques and categories and you don’t want to fall in with the wrong crowd. In this chapter, I am going to help you to identify the different types of school mum, and hopefully help to guide you through the sometimes delightful and sometimes confusing reality of being a grown-up in the school environment. (And, as usual, my musings and advice should be taken with a grain of salt, as they are served with a hefty dose of generalisation.)

  SANCTIMONIOUS MUM

  Sanctimonious Mum knows the name of the Unknown Soldier. She is swift to point out your shortcomings and will share her opinion on anything, whether it is asked for or not. Quite often she is highly intelligent and has based her opinions on hard facts and research.

  If you disagree with her, her natural reaction would be a slight flare of the nostril, a slight head tilt and a short but meaningful death stare. It’s best not to disagree with her for she is also a good gossip and can destroy you and your reputation within one canteen duty.

  Teachers are frightened of the Sanctimonious Mum, for she thinks nothing of entering a classroom and demanding to know why her gifted and talented child was not chosen for the gifted and talented program. The world revolves around her needs and desires and should you dare object . . . NOSTRIL FLARE!

  PURIST MUM

  Purist Mum had a drug-free birth and reminds you of it often. She will bring gluten-free protein balls—homemade, naturally—into the classroom to celebrate her kid’s birthday and, you wouldn’t believe it, they’re actually made with beetroot!

  The Purist Mum is a real mover and shaker when it comes to implementing environmental projects within the school. You can bet a bunch of organic carrots that she helped set up the vegetable garden and she’ll always be asking you to join her co-op. She wears a wide-brimmed hat and no makeup, and is the picture of sunny, smiling health. I am quite often inspired by the Purist Mum—not enough to put down my can of Diet Coke and get into making my own kombucha, but I do find them to be an interesting and important part of the school mum mix.

  WORKING MUM

  The Working Mum is often a target of scorn because she is unable to go on excursions, do canteen, host play dates or drop everything to go to the cafe for a flat white and a gossip (because she is at work).

  Whether she works though necessity or for sanity, the Working Mum needs the support of others in the community to make her life easier, or just possible. You rarely see her, as her kids are in before- and after-school care, but she rushes into assemblies when she can make it, always with an apologetic look, as if she obliged to justify her choices. And of course she shouldn’t have to.

  I have been the Working Mum. I know how difficult it can be. I know the guilt and I also recall the loveliness of those other mothers who would help me out when things got a bit too crazy.

  SLACKER MUM

  All hail the Slacker Mum, who is slack. But guess what? She just doesn’t care! Her anxiety levels are very low and things happen at her pace. So she might not be great at handing in notes. Her kids’ books remain contact-free long after Easter has come and gone. She may or may not turn up to reading groups that week, depending on her mood.

  The Slacker Mum often orders her kids’ lunches at the canteen because she has forgotten to buy bread. The Slacker Mum sends her kids to school in their normal uniform on mufti days, because she never got around to reading the school newsletter. It is not unusual to see the Slacker Mum at the school gate in her pyjama pants, sans bra and with her hair unbrushed. Judge away if you want, but she is just getting on with getting on, and doesn’t care what you think.

  GETS-SHIT-DONE MUM

  Every school needs a smattering of these women. They are essential for a school to keep ticking over. Some other mums are fearful of them and their formidable organisational skills, but you shouldn’t shrink away; you should be bloody thankful to have them in your playground.

  How else would you get a pink mug on Mother’s Day that says WORLD’S GREATEST MUM, if not for the Get-Shit-Done Mum who organised the stall? These mums arrange for thoughtful gifts to be given to the teacher on their birthday and at Christmas time. They are inevitably the ‘class mum’ who will coordinate communications for important events, such as class dinners and park dates.

  I love Get-Shit-Done Mums. They keep me honest and tell me when I have forgotten to send in a box of tissues or something equally random. In fact, I have befriended a Get-Shit-Done Mum who now thoughtfully texts me important reminders as described in a previous chapter.

  As I said earlier, you might find this type of mum intimidating, but I urge you to embrace her. She has a genuine desire to help—to GET SHIT DONE. And, hey, if she wasn’t there, then you might have to do it. Think about it.

  TOO-COOL MUM

  Well, quite frankly, the Too-Cool Mums frighten the bejesus out of me. They walk as if they have never tripped over a tree root in their life, and they can do it while drinking coffee at the same time as checking their phone. They don’t even have to look where they are going. It is like their brains are pre-programmed to avoid things that might trip them.

  Do I sound like I am a little in awe of them? Yes, perhaps I am. Once, I even tried to be one.

  My oldest son had started kindy and I befriended the coolest mum I had ever seen. And guess what? SHE LIKED ME! She really, really liked me! So I did what any woman with low self-esteem does: I tried to be someone that I was not. I tried to be ‘fashion forward’.

  Suddenly I was taking an
interest in what was considered ‘trendy’ at the time. I spent hours tracking down cool things I’d seen in magazines. We would have conversations in the playground about the merits of my handbag. This went on for a few months, and then a military jacket caused me to take a good, hard look at myself.

  The military trend was everywhere, so of course I bought a black jacket adorned with so much braid and bling that I looked like I had come straight from the photo shoot for the Sergeant Pepper album cover.

  I wore it to school pick-up and waited breathlessly for my cool friend’s praise. And, well . . . she said nothing. She didn’t even acknowledge that she was sitting next to a military (quasi) official. I mean, I wasn’t expecting a salute or anything, just some sort of acknowledgment of how cool I was.

  And then it hit me. This girl wasn’t fashion forward at all! She just had a really cool style. She didn’t march to the military beat of someone else’s drum; she was just born cool. And once I realised this, my days of being fashion forward were discarded as quickly as a pair of poop-catcher pants into a Vinnie’s bag.

  For I am not a cool mum. And I am okay with that.

  TIGER MUM

  In 2011 Chinese American mum Amy Chua published a book called Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, and all of a sudden this tribe had a name. Tiger Mums are, in essence, totally devoted to their kids and are determined that they will achieve 110 per cent of their potential, come hell or high water.

  The children of Tiger Mums are required to be fluent in many languages, to play a musical instrument with the proficiency of a professional musician and to attain brilliant academic results with ease.

  I myself have encountered an actual Tiger Mum. Two in fact.

  The first encounter with a Tiger Mum occurred over a ballet bun. I said I could take her daughter, along with my son, to their weekly ballet class. She agreed that this would be okay. She later called to ask me about my competence when it comes to scraping hair up into a bun. My mistake was to pause for a moment as my brain took a while to comprehend what she was asking. She took this silence as a weakness when it came to my hairdressing ability so my offer of help was rescinded.

  The next Tiger Mum was far more brutal.

  She had identified that one of my kids had a natural affinity with a tennis racquet and asked whether he might be interested in partnering her son in an upcoming tournament. I could see no reason why not, although he had never played in a tournament before and I had no idea what that might entail. I just thought it was a chance for him to get out on a court and have a hit. They’re just having fun, right?

  Wrong. It was far more serious than that. The Tiger Mum handed me a practice schedule and made it clear that she expected us to follow it. (This might be a good time to mention that, at the time, my son was eight.)

  After a fortnight of practice, Tiger Mum informed me that I needed to get my son a new racquet—this afternoon, preferably, as they needed to practice in the morning.

  I should have told her to fuck off then and there, but she was scary.

  So to cut a long story short, a new racquet was purchased and our sons went on to place third in the tournament.

  Tiger Mum was gutted. ‘You didn’t give him enough time to get used to his new racquet!’ she cried.

  I nodded in agreement, then left. As soon as I reached the car, I deleted her number from my phone.

  Never again. Roar in someone else’s direction, thank you very much.

  PERFECT MUM

  The Perfect Mum is a fictional character who only exists in margarine ads. You know the type, don’t you? Advertisers would have us believe that all mums get around with perfect blow-dries, straight shiny teeth and wearing expensive linen. She is inevitably a truly content stay-at-home Mum and almost always has a golden retriever that springs from the car when she goes to unpack the shopping.

  Her kids sit up nicely at the bench in her sparkling kitchen, as she presents them with something freshly baked, at the sight of which they declare that she is the best mum in Australia, if not the world.

  The Perfect Mum will smile her perfect smile, then reach for some sort of pre-packaged, pre-moistened antibacterial towelette to wipe up some invisible crumbs. After which, together with her cherubs, she will open the dishwasher so everyone can admire how clean it is.

  The Perfect Mum also takes fibre tablets and uses incontinence pads when she jumps on the trampoline, which she seems to do often.

  And now let me reiterate: THE PERFECT MUM DOES NOT EXIST.

  Every mum has her strengths and weaknesses, every mum suffers her highs and lows. A lot of us look at other mums and think, ‘I don’t know how she does it.’ But the truth of the matter is, nobody does it by the book.

  Because there is no book.

  Actually, I stand corrected. There are a million books on mothering.

  Okay, not quite a million. According to Amazon, there are 137,464 titles on mothering available for you to order today, and with such fascinating titles on offer, why wouldn’t you clog up your noggin with ridiculous fluff? Choose from:

  Mothering with Purpose: Winning the heart of your child

  The Zen Mother Made Easy!

  The Peaceful Mom: How to stop yelling

  The Guide to Meaningful and Significant Mothering

  The truth is, these books are full of bullshit.

  The truth is, we need all of the types of mums—the ones outlined in this chapter and many more besides.

  The truth is, no matter what you are doing, someone will think you are doing it wrong. So learn to be cool with that.

  Now, can I interest you in a large floral headband? Or perhaps some camouflage pants?

  THE MOTHER’S DAY STALL

  There have been a motley collection of Mother’s and Father’s Day gifts from school stalls over the years, but none so fabulous as those described in this anecdote:

  At dawn one Mother’s Day my eight-year-old son presented me with a still life of a phallic gourd, a pair of acrylic exfoliating gloves and some tissues decorated with animals. ‘Good luck with getting the snot on the animals!’ he enthusiastically declared. His younger sister gave me a little tin bucket with lollies—‘Mum, can I have the lollies, and you can use the bucket to carry sand at the beach! You can even poo into it!’ By this time I was half crying, half laughing, my sleep-addled brain full of an image of myself scrubbing off dead skin cells then shitting into a bucket the size of a teacup! At least I didn’t get the bottle of toilet cleaner the ladies at the school Mother’s Day stall were apparently selling . . .

  27

  THE (SCHOOL) TIE THAT BINDS

  Studies have shown that students from private schools are more likely to get into uni and end up making a lot more money; while wife-beaters and rapists are nearly all public-school-educated. Sorry, no offence, but it’s true.

  JA’MIE KING

  Once upon a time there was a young girl who lived on the outskirts of the Sydney suburban sprawl in an area that was well known for superior marijuana cultivation. As the girl was finishing her primary school education, her parents became concerned that she would fall in with the wrong crowd, for she was a wild child in the making.

  Her bedroom walls were lined with posters of Brian Mannix, Pseudo Echo and a strung out Michael Hutchence, and when she was sprung smoking Winfield Reds with her friend Audra and word came back about her kissing episodes, the decision was made.

  ‘You, young lady, are going to boarding school!’ her parents announced one night over dinner.

  The girl gently put her knife and fork down, then unleashed a string of expletives unlike anything her parents had ever heard and which only hardened their resolve. So, kicking and screaming, she was packed up and deposited on the steps of a high-falutin’, fancy all-girls school, which opened up a whole new world to her.

  This world was governed by fantastic teachers by day, and at night by pill-popping, depressed boarding house mistresses who were unaware that their fifteen-year-old charges were st
ealing away in the middle of the night, taking the train into the city and dancing with American sailors at dirty bars in Kings Cross.

  This behaviour continued for years, and while she saw her peers expelled for all sorts of shenanigans, her street smarts ensured she was never caught. She became a fabulous liar, so convincing that it was thought she might have a future career treading the boards.

  There were some close calls, of course, such as the morning when she woke up snuggled next to her boyfriend in the boarding house. The housemistress banged on the door loudly, almost causing said boyfriend to defecate. He ducked under the doona, while our heroine and the housemistress had a short but heated argument as to why she was not attending chapel, repenting her sins.

  As the end of her schooling drew closer, her parents became anxious with regards to her final results, as well they might. The word ‘horrified’ might have been used. The term ‘waste of money’ was definitely uttered.

  ‘What went wrong?’ they asked each other. ‘We sent her to a high-falutin’, fancy all-girls school. We sent her to a private school.’

  The age-old debate regarding private school versus public school is still a hot topic. You’ll hear it discussed wherever the parents of school-age children gather. On the sidelines of children’s sporting matches. At boring dinner parties with work colleagues. At church. At rehab centres. At school gates all over the world.

  ‘Where are your kids going to go to high school?’

  Please . . . punch me in the face.

  Where I live, conversation at the school gate follows a well-worn path:

  ‘Did you do anything nice on the weekend?’

  ‘Did Hugo/Isabella enjoy rugby/drama this week?’

  ‘My neighbour’s place went for more than two million dollars!’

  ‘I just use sunscreen every day.’

  ‘Where are you going skiing this year?’