Primary School Confidential
Page 17
The truth is I love the together time. I know I’m supposed to love it when they are out of my hair, but I sure like having them around now.
You can follow Shae’s adventures by reading her blog @ freerangeinsuburbia.com.
28
THE DOG ATE MY HOMEWORK
‘Mum, what is the quotient of 7 and 63?’
Have you ever had your kid ask you a question like this? By which I mean: you have absolutely no idea what they’re talking about? So you google quotient and Wikipedia hits you up with this:
In mathematics, a quotient (from Latin: quotiens ‘how many times’, pronounced ) is the result of division. [1] For example, when dividing 6 by 3, the quotient is 2, while 6 is called the dividend, and 3 the divisor. The quotient further is expressed as the number of times the divisor divides into the dividend, e.g. 3 divides 2 times into 6. A quotient can also mean just the integer part of the result of dividing two integers. For example, the quotient of 13 divided by 5 would be 2 while the remainder would be 3. For more, see the Euclidean division.
And then you’re left standing there, absentmindedly scratching the inside of your ear, before saying something along the lines of ‘. . . Division? Or something related to dividing things?’
It is true that there are many occasions when my offspring have proven to be smarter than me, especially when it comes to using the Foxtel remote or certain social media apps. But it’s a little disconcerting when I am unable to do Year 5 maths—especially considering that, at one stage, I was in charge of teaching it!
It seems that, with age, my brain has turned to ham-and-pea soup, and I now struggle with the basic elements of reading, writing and arithmetic.
I recall getting my first gold star in class. My heart almost burst such was my immense pride. I can even still remember why I got it: I was able to demonstrate, using my pointer finger, the hidden number 2, which was disguised as half of an angel. Miss Babos and I, we were such a great team. Finding hidden numbers, lining up our Cuisenaire rods, playing games with counters. Now that is my idea of maths, and I’m fairly sure I’d still be able to find that hidden number 2 today. But at some point—and I think it’s from about Year 3—maths goes from Johnny having four apples and Beth having five and how many do they have altogether to ‘Is 70,173,454 divisible by 5?’. It’s a bit like playing ‘Chopsticks’ on the piano and then, moments later, being asked to play Chopin’s Piano Concerto no. 3 in A major in front of a packed concert hall. There is a huge gap that causes a disconnect. And it is at the precise moment when your child writes ‘yes’ in answer to the question about 70,173,454 that you realise your kid is smarter than you.
Debate has raged over the decades as to whether homework is beneficial at all. When yours truly was at school, we had a list of ten spelling words that we had to learn during the week. We were tested on these words each Friday, and if you got all ten correct, you were the lucky recipient of jelly snake. Wow! That was all the incentive I needed to ensure that, come Friday, I was down with that list.
The hours after school were spent exploring the neighbourhood on our bikes, playing cricket on the road, or trying to avoid being pummelled by that evil Benny Brown who lived on the next street.
So, when did homework creep in? Why are we now faced with more things to do after school? How do we fit it in around footy practice, ballet, Mandarin, tennis lessons, judo, organic smoothie-making masterclasses, touch-typing lessons, maths tutoring and crafternoons? Do we expect our kids to do their maths homework while in the waiting room of the dentist/dermatologist/allergist/podiatrist/physiotherapist/kinesiologist?
And why do I have to be the big mean mummy overseeing all of these extra activities?
‘Have you done your homework?’ I ask each day, and each day comes the reply: ‘Yes.’
On further investigation, it is revealed that the homework is actually still in the school bag, untouched, and the whole lot is due tomorrow.
And just what are these fucking complex sentences of which you speak? What the hell is an independent clause? A subordinating conjunction? Surely these terms belong in a courtroom, not on page 40 of Lauren O’Brien and John Walters’ Grammar Conventions: National Grammar and Language Activities for Grade 6, 2nd edition.
This book will also familiarise your child with modality, adverbials, cohesive devices and an anxiety disorder. Now, I am far from being on the invitation list for Mensa, but I have racked my brain recalling my own school days, and all I can remember is the spelling list. And times tables. That’s about it. (Apart from sport and library, which of course were my favourite part of the school curriculum, other than big lunch and little lunch.)
But education is different these days, and schools are expected to develop homework policies that cater to the particular needs of their children. When teachers give homework, it’s not because they’re sadists; it’s because, generally speaking, teachers are good people who want to see your lovely kids succeed. Homework is important to establish good study habits, to extend the learning done in the classroom and to enforce self-discipline. (Which I think is a lot to ask of a five-year-old who just wants to pick his nose, roll it up into a ball and flick it at his brother.) Teachers rejoice in seeing their students overcome learning obstacles, develop problem-solving skills and reach academic milestones. But don’t forget, homework is a pain in the arse for them too, because they have to mark every page and write some sort of encouraging comment for every kid. And mostly they have to do it on the weekend.
Thanks to all this homework, we are producing a new breed of super-smart kids, but I for one am bloody useless when it comes to helping them out. And I believe there does come a point when your personal pride should be placed above grammar conventions and obtuse angles, so I am happy to provide you with a template that you can print off and send to your school should all this homework palaver get too much:
Dear Sir or Madam,
This CEASE AND DESIST ORDER is to inform you that your harassing and intimidating actions are completely unacceptable and will not be tolerated in any way, shape or form. Should you continue to pursue these brain-zapping activities in violation of this CEASE AND DESIST ORDER, I will not hesitate to pursue further legal action against you, including, but not limited to, civil action and/or criminal complaints.
I have had to pull a very comprehensive report about the Daintree Rainforest out of my arse in less than twenty-four hours.
I still don’t know how to spell conscieous/conscience/conchous without having to resort to spellcheck, yet it seems to be on the kids’ spelling list every week. Ditto definantly/defenently.
I keep confusing Modality with some sort of feminine hygiene product.
Fridays roll around far too quickly and I find it very taxing to finish the homework on time. I can never seem to find a blue pen, so my kid does his homework in black pen, and then you write a comment on the homework stressing that he is required to use blue pen, yet you write it in RED!
The advanced nature of the work required of my eleven-year-old makes me question my own mental capacities, which in turn causes my self-confidence to suffer. I do not enjoy it when my kids soundly demonstrate superior mental computation strategies by adding up complex numbers just by using their brain, while I have to write down sums and carry numbers and all that crap. When doing or discussing homework with my kids, I feel a mix of shame and stupidity.
Please note that I have the right to remain free from your intimidating homework tactics, and I intend to protect that right. Note that a copy of this letter and a record of its delivery will be stored. Note too that it is admissible as evidence in a court of law and will be used should the need arise in the future.
This CEASE AND DESIST ORDER demands that you immediately discontinue and do not at any point henceforth do the following to me: highlight my lack of basic skills in numeracy and literacy; put red frowny faces on my work; put red question marks on my work; or send me a note saying that my work is not up to the class standard
.
Failure to comply with my demands will send me to the nearest bottle of gin, whereupon I will be forced to remove the lid and have a big swig. And because the gin is almost 100% definantly going to make me cry, you will have that on your conscence as well.
Given that homework seems to be a necessary evil, let us now take a look at some of the excuses one might use to get out of submitting one’s homework, and common teacher responses.
I forgot my homework. No shit? You just haven’t done it.
I didn’t know it was due today. Of course you knew it was due today, because it is Friday and that’s the day that you wear your sports uniform and it is also the day that you get a lunch order because your useless mother has run out of bread. And fruit. And anything else that could be identified as sustenance. You just haven’t done your homework.
Start crying. This one has its advantages. Depending on the type of teacher you have, this can be a very effective way of getting out of your homework. It’s particularly good if you can manage to get yourself worked up into an advanced state of hysteria, with uncontrollable snot issues and perhaps a cheeky stint of hyperventilation. Chances are you will be sent to the sick bay to calm the fuck down.
I accidentally threw it out. What? You threw out two large textbooks, your iPad and an additional green plastic portfolio? Don’t take me for a fool, young lady.
Mum was too busy watching YouTube clips of Tatum Channing with his shirt off and couldn’t help me. Embarrassing, but credible.
The dog ate my homework. Everyone has used this excuse in some point in their life, even if they have never owned a dog. Because it cannot be proven, you may get away with this once. But keep it up your sleeve. Don’t go in too hard with this one too early in the year.
And even if coming up with excuses is the only way you can help your children with their homework, as ever, try to ensure that the excuses sound like the kids’ own work.
29
PLEASE REPORT TO THE OFFICE
The most hideous war in human history—the Drug War—is being fought throughout the world at this moment. Its devastation reaches Australia. It is a war without honour. No monuments list the dead, the wounded, and the innocent victims. Daily the number of casualties, daily the number of deaths, increases more rapidly.
REVEREND TED NOFFS
In 1974 the Reverend Ted Noffs and his wife Margaret established the Life Education Centre to help inform children about the dangers of drugs. Mobile classrooms are parked in schools around the country to help deliver the anti-drugs message. So when the note came home that Healthy Harold was coming to our hood, I signed that piece of paper giving permission for my kids to be taught about the evils of drugs.
Then word came through that some of the kids had caught the Healthy Harold lady smoking behind the van. The principal was alerted and Mrs Healthy Harold was warned not to smoke on school property anymore. It was the most scandalous thing that had happened in our suburb since some brain surgeon wrote FUK on the side of the IGA with spray paint.
School visitors are nothing new. One of my own most vivid memories involves a lady coming in to talk to us about Dr Barnardo’s Homes. It was the late 1970s and this striking-looking lady with the biggest afro I have ever seen came through the door of the classroom and took her place in the circle. (We were, of course, on the floor, while she took a seat on a chair.) And when she opened her mouth to speak, well, she sounded like she had walked straight off the set of a movie.
For she was an American! A real-life American! And so I hung on her every word. She told us a story about Dr Barnardo, who lived in London, and how he was horrified by the number of homeless children living on the street. So he opened homes to house the kids.
By all accounts Dr Barnardo was a very nice man who did very good works. But that’s not why I remember the details of Dr Barnardo’s Homes all these years later. No, it’s because of the exotic visitor to our classroom who spent thirty minutes hypnotising us.
‘Dr. Barnado’s. Homes.’ She must have repeated these three words dozens of times, always with a dramatic pause between each word. ‘Dr. Banardo’s. Homes.’
At first, she simply asked us to repeat the words back to her.
‘Dr. Barnado’s. Homes,’ we chorused obediently.
Then she mixed it up a little. ‘Dr . . . ?’
‘Barnado’s. Homes,’ we replied.
‘And so you will ask your parents to put money into these envelopes for . . . ?’
‘Dr. Barnado’s. Homes.’
And then she left, while we all looked at each other and wondered what the hell had just happened.
Primary schools are almost always crawling with visitors, from the plumber who’s come to unblock a dunny that had been stuffed full of unwanted sandwiches to the school district superintendent who has come to assess the quality of the kindergarten class’s finger-painting. But there is one thing that they all have to do: report to the office.
Every visitor to the school must sign in and declare their business. This is meant to weed out any undesirables. But some still get in.
Much like my glamorous American brainwasher, corporate businesses are keen to get in front of a large group of kids and sell them their message. Like:
If you get Mum and Dad to do their weekly shop at our supermarket, and you bring all your receipts in and put them in this heavily branded box that we will provide to your school FOR FREE, then we will give your school an uninflated basketball. But remember, that’s only if your school community spends $45,000 with us in the next fortnight!
Or what about the beverage company that will trot out a couple of AFL players to talk to your kids about fitness and health?
Plus, we will give you each a cheap branded sun visor and take a photo of you with said AFL player and use the image on social media! #lifeissweet
And of course there is the burger giant that gives out grants to community sporting groups with one hand, while shoving hot salty fries into your children’s mouths with the other.
A few years ago, one of my children suffered an addiction. An addiction to jumping rope. A team of skipping professionals had been bussed in and they proceeded to put on a fantastic, artistic display of skipping. It was enough to inspire my youngest to abandon his dream of being a world-class handball player and reach for a skipping rope—and so my nightmare began.
My nightmare was fuelled by a school program sponsored by a national healthcare, financial services and retirement living organisation, providing services to more than half a million Australians and health cover to close to 300,000 Australians.
Thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack.
The noise drove me to drink. It was the first thing that I heard every morning.
Thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack.
Every afternoon after school.
Thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack.
And all day on weekends.
Thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack.
I’d had no idea a five-year-old was capable of such commitment.
And then the Jump Rope for Heart day came around, a glorious festival which culminated in a whole school skip-off. And smack me across the face with a piece of rope if my kid’s class didn’t triumph over all the other kindergarten classes!
So of course I was as proud as punch. My son, skipping champion. Despite the fact that he had only raised $7.15, which was the amount I happened to have on me at the time.
And while we are speaking of fundraising, whose idea was it to send kids home with a box of giant Caramello Koalas to sell? So, you get a box of forty-eight giant chocolate-covered, gooey, caramel-centred koalas, proceed to eat them all yourself, then—filled with guilt and shame—fork over $50.
But at least with the giant koala caper you are getting something for your dough. At one Sydney private school, you can pay a thousand dollars and, in return, they will give you a brick. But—here’s the catch—they don’t actually give it to you. The
y use it to make a walking path. Now, I would never stand accused of being an astute businessperson, but even I can tell that a thousand bucks for one brick offers a very poor return on my investment.
Another visitor to my primary school was a dental nurse. She would set up in a small demountable and the children then lined up at the door. One by one, our teacher would usher us in. The nurse would ask us to open our mouths, and she would have a little look around. If you got a note to take home, it meant that you had a cavity and needed to go to the dentist. If not, you were good to go.
I didn’t get the note of doom, but I was rewarded with a liberal dose of a gross pink slime—fluoride, apparently—and I can still remember the taste vividly all these decades later. It was so offensive it brought several kids to tears. But that was nothing compared to what happened to you in Year 6 . . .
If you were a girl in Year 6, there was a vial of rubella vaccination with your name on it somewhere. We were all lined up and sent into the demountable one by one. There, the doctor came at us with a needle: JAB! There was much dramatic wailing afterwards, so if you were at the end of the queue, because your surname started with a letter at the end of the alphabet, you were completely traumatised by the time it was your turn.
But there were good visitors as well.
Like when the reptile man would come to town, laden with turtles and snakes for us to look at. I remember the delicious frisson of terror I felt as he explained how venomous the snakes were.
And then there was the day that the government realised too many kids were being badly injured when riding their bikes to school, so they asked Molly Meldrum—who was everyone’s hero at the time, because he had recently interviewed a young Madonna—to endorse the Stackhat. And, boy, did this endorsement lead to sales! When the Stackhat was first introduced to the market in 1982, it was sold at a few bike shops but not in any head-turning numbers. By 1986, two million kids were riding the suburbs of Australia with their heads protected by Stackhats. Despite the fact that the helmet weighed about twenty-five kilograms and was Lego yellow, and thus was neither attractive nor comfortable, sales soared.