Primary School Confidential (26 page)
Read Primary School Confidential Online
Authors: Woog
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 âfashion forward'.
Suddenly I was taking an interest in what was considered âtrendy' 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 racquetâthis 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. âYou 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, âI 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 mumsâthe 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. âGood luck with getting the snot on the animals!' he enthusiastically declared. His younger sister gave me a little tin bucket with lolliesââMum, 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 . . .
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.
âYou, 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 stealing 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 âhorrified' might have been used. The term âwaste of money' was definitely uttered.
âWhat went wrong?' they asked each other. âWe 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.
âWhere 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:
