Whoever said school days are the happiest days of your life must have been insane. First off because getting up at sparrow’s fart cannot make anyone happy unless they getting up to catch a flight to the Caribbean. Even though my school days are far behind me watching my children suffer the same ignominy has brought back many of the feelings of sheer helplessness and impotence.
The first day of school was survived by all. Just. So it was great to see their friends. Small boy aged 9 got in trouble for missing a choir session on the day I was released from hospital. Not just a stern talking to, but ritual public humiliation. Breaking my child’s spirit for something out of his control fills me with ire. Father went this morning and read them their fortunes.
My school mornings were fraught with panic that I would be late, which I inevitably was. I’d be hauled up in front of the school and “made an example of”. It didn’t matter that I tried to get my mother’s breakfast ready early, pack the car for her and turn on the engine to warm it up. The fact that I didn’t drag her into the car at gunpoint and force her to leave made me a weak and spineless child. As a result (combined with the inevitable horror of swimming lessons) as I watched the clock tick later and later I’d end up throwing up all over her car. I am damned if my children will suffer the same.
Small girl aged 5 has a new teacher. She doesn’t look old enough to drive let alone vote. How weirdly ageist and judgemental I have become. Still, I hope that under those blond bangs and innocent demeanour is a spine of steel. My daughter can sniff out weakness and exploit it in a fraction of a second. She already tried the crocodile tears yesterday and I saw her watching keenly under her lashes to ascertain the reaction. The teacher seems very sweet and hails for Durban. Small girl’s father spent a happy few minutes this morning trying to get her to say “Fush”. He arrived back home energised from the encounter.
Small boy aged 9 didn’t tell anyone about his motorbike because he didn’t think anyone would believe him. Small boy aged 6 seemed to be the only one who took everything in his stride. Thank god for small mercies. The upshot is I arrived home last night exhausted from day 2 at work to find Small girl tearstained and distraught, her oldest brother lying in the bath like a beached whale drowning himself in sulks and small boy aged 6 watching TV in an exhausted state of near coma. Small boy aged 9 had a migraine, my unfortunate legacy, and once happily drugged into sleep took over my kingsize bed. Coupled with books that have to covered (necessitating a trip to Carlos at the Spar for plastic wrap), school lunches and bag packing I ended up dreaming about school all night long.
The sound of the alarm going off in the darkness this morning did not fill me with sweet joy. I took a page from Small girl aged 5’s book and batted my eyelashes at her father who kindly did the school run so I could collapse back into my own bed for one more blessed hour’s sleep. I did achieve one thing yesterday in terms of maternal duty. Small girl aged 5 informed me that she has no desire to follow in my footsteps and go to Roedean, but rather she wants to go with her best friend to Auckland Park Primary. I duly went over and completed an application form that will no doubt go nowhere. The fact that the action was largely futile is irrelevant, at least I can tell her I tried.
My colleague is currently cutting out about two hundred Minnie Mouse’s for her niece’s 1st birthday as well as creating 50 odd colouring in books. The birthday is about 3 weeks time. My son’s birthday was last week and I have yet to even harbour thoughts about the party, which has morphed into an afternoon with some pals riding his bike. Yippee. I can handle that.
Damnation, my boss has given me the evil eye about time sheets again. I guess it time to fire up those creative juices and get imaginative.
Yay! Auckland Park Primary just called to offer Small girl an assessment! Is her happiness worth an extra 45 minute commute? Maybe the boys can take the bus.
Showing posts with label teachers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label teachers. Show all posts
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Sookie Stackhouse and other stereotypes
Single parenting again this week while husband flies off to Nigeria. Hopefully this week will go by without anyone barfing. A mother can only hope.
The father of my offspring gets angry and hurt when small children scream for Mummy. Quite often I wish the wheel would turn in the other direction. Or course, they wait until he is not here and then the tears fall like rain.
Small girl aged 5: “Daaaaa Deeeee! I want mah Daaaaa Deeee!”
Me: “Daddy is in Nigeria. I can get you out the bath or you can stay there until Friday when he gets back.”
Small girl aged 5: “I want mah Daaaaa Deeee!”
Me to Small boy aged 8: “You deal with it.”
The visit to Nigeria brought on an interesting conversation about national identity and stereotypes. Husband pointed out that you can’t judge a country of millions on the 2 000 odd drug dealers in Hillbrow. This is correct, but the world likes things in simple terms and it makes writing movie scripts much easier so:
Australians shag sheep.
South Africa is crime central and where you can get a good deal on offing your fiancé.
Germans are white supremacists.
Swedes have no sense of humour.
Russia and Italy are Mafia capitals.
Nigeria is made up of drug lords.
The English queue and can’t cook.
The French cook, but are obnoxious.
The Dutch have legal weed smokers.
America is a nation of consumerism, mild idiocy and Disney.
It doesn’t matter how much money International Marketing Councils spend on trying to change these perceptions there are there to stay. The greatest perceptual changes of national identity are made through cartoons and movies, not the news or CNN.
For example, when visiting America you can’t experience the national character by visiting Lady Liberty. It is the taste of a chilli dog, the carnival of a baseball game and fireworks on Independence Day. In England it is a footie match, a warm beer in a dark pub and a plate of bangers and mash.
I got in to very very hot water yesterday with Small boy aged 8’s teacher. The one person you should never piss off. I hope she hasn’t heard about the Army outfit or her opinion of me will sink even lower. So, last night small boy had to catch up a week’s worth of homework. It was so painful I felt like doing it for him. I deeply resent teachers who take out their irritation at the parents on their kids. Anyway, the reason I didn’t pick up the bloody homework was because we were all on a conference call on the great white telephone.
Arguably the worst part of the single parenting week (aside from the morning school run at tweet o’clock) is that I cannot take any painkillers for my back. They work like a charm, but they also remove me from this plane of existence for a few blessed hours. Hence, I cannot take them in case the house burns down and I am too comatose to rescue the cat. Which is why this morning’s desire to not pay any heed to the alarm clock led to a late awakening of the troops and a surprisingly well orchestrated campaign to get out the door. We even made it to school on time. Of course, as in any war, there are casualties. Today’s was the toaster, which lay down and died in the trenches amid heavy fire.
In response to this and a deep dislike of grocery shopping I went online to Pick n Pay and did my big shop. It took almost as long as going to the bloody supermarket, but with less stress and no anxiety attacks. Frozen food for some inexplicable reason reduces me to hysterical tears. The supermarket now knows me well enough to lead me to the coffee shop, ply me with sweet tea and finish my shopping for me. Weeping women in the frozen food aisle can be off-putting for other shoppers.
Must remember today:
Book wax – do not want to terrify surgeons
Manicure and pedicure – same reason
Sexy yet demure pyjamas – just because I will feel like hell is no reason to look like it
Hospital pre-admission forms
Bone density scan
Strawberry yoghurt
Damnation! I have work to do and I have finally managed to get into the Sookie Stackhouse chronicles. The name is just off-putting, Sookie? Yuck. Well, at least they aren’t vegan vampires like the last lot. To thine own self be true and all that. Vegan vamps just aren’t on.
The father of my offspring gets angry and hurt when small children scream for Mummy. Quite often I wish the wheel would turn in the other direction. Or course, they wait until he is not here and then the tears fall like rain.
Small girl aged 5: “Daaaaa Deeeee! I want mah Daaaaa Deeee!”
Me: “Daddy is in Nigeria. I can get you out the bath or you can stay there until Friday when he gets back.”
Small girl aged 5: “I want mah Daaaaa Deeee!”
Me to Small boy aged 8: “You deal with it.”
The visit to Nigeria brought on an interesting conversation about national identity and stereotypes. Husband pointed out that you can’t judge a country of millions on the 2 000 odd drug dealers in Hillbrow. This is correct, but the world likes things in simple terms and it makes writing movie scripts much easier so:
Australians shag sheep.
South Africa is crime central and where you can get a good deal on offing your fiancé.
Germans are white supremacists.
Swedes have no sense of humour.
Russia and Italy are Mafia capitals.
Nigeria is made up of drug lords.
The English queue and can’t cook.
The French cook, but are obnoxious.
The Dutch have legal weed smokers.
America is a nation of consumerism, mild idiocy and Disney.
It doesn’t matter how much money International Marketing Councils spend on trying to change these perceptions there are there to stay. The greatest perceptual changes of national identity are made through cartoons and movies, not the news or CNN.
For example, when visiting America you can’t experience the national character by visiting Lady Liberty. It is the taste of a chilli dog, the carnival of a baseball game and fireworks on Independence Day. In England it is a footie match, a warm beer in a dark pub and a plate of bangers and mash.
I got in to very very hot water yesterday with Small boy aged 8’s teacher. The one person you should never piss off. I hope she hasn’t heard about the Army outfit or her opinion of me will sink even lower. So, last night small boy had to catch up a week’s worth of homework. It was so painful I felt like doing it for him. I deeply resent teachers who take out their irritation at the parents on their kids. Anyway, the reason I didn’t pick up the bloody homework was because we were all on a conference call on the great white telephone.
Arguably the worst part of the single parenting week (aside from the morning school run at tweet o’clock) is that I cannot take any painkillers for my back. They work like a charm, but they also remove me from this plane of existence for a few blessed hours. Hence, I cannot take them in case the house burns down and I am too comatose to rescue the cat. Which is why this morning’s desire to not pay any heed to the alarm clock led to a late awakening of the troops and a surprisingly well orchestrated campaign to get out the door. We even made it to school on time. Of course, as in any war, there are casualties. Today’s was the toaster, which lay down and died in the trenches amid heavy fire.
In response to this and a deep dislike of grocery shopping I went online to Pick n Pay and did my big shop. It took almost as long as going to the bloody supermarket, but with less stress and no anxiety attacks. Frozen food for some inexplicable reason reduces me to hysterical tears. The supermarket now knows me well enough to lead me to the coffee shop, ply me with sweet tea and finish my shopping for me. Weeping women in the frozen food aisle can be off-putting for other shoppers.
Must remember today:
Book wax – do not want to terrify surgeons
Manicure and pedicure – same reason
Sexy yet demure pyjamas – just because I will feel like hell is no reason to look like it
Hospital pre-admission forms
Bone density scan
Strawberry yoghurt
Damnation! I have work to do and I have finally managed to get into the Sookie Stackhouse chronicles. The name is just off-putting, Sookie? Yuck. Well, at least they aren’t vegan vampires like the last lot. To thine own self be true and all that. Vegan vamps just aren’t on.
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