Primary School Confidential (2 page)

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
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: 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.

_____________

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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.

Yet despite my tomboy antics and desire to be a professional footballer when I grew up, I still—like so many young girls—coveted pretty costumes and shiny crowns. But I'm afraid my unprepossessing appearance led to my first experience of public humiliation.

It was coming up to the end of the year, and everyone's attention had turned to the nativity play—a Christmas school tradition that has long since died out thanks to the controversy that surrounds religion in schools. Hell, my mum was an atheist, and then a Buddhist, but she didn't give a damn about the fact that I was going to be the head angel, come hell or high water. That was my dream, you see; my goal. Not only did the head angel get the most stage time and the prettiest costume, complete with
silver, sparkly wings—she alone got to wear a halo, a magnificent headpiece draped in silver tinsel.

I spent hours in front of the bathroom mirror practising standing still and looking celestial, and just as well I did because the audition process was fairly brutal. To begin with, all those who wanted to play Joseph or Mary were asked to stand. I stayed seated; there was no
way
I wanted to wear the dull brown sack that was Mary's costume. Yuck!