Primary School Confidential

by Woog

  The next morning, said son wandered into the room and I got the shock of my life: it looked like someone had given him in almighty slap across the face.

  Welcome to ‘slapped cheek’ disease, a nasty little ailment caused by human parvovirus B19. It’s contracted in the same way as most viruses: if an affected kid coughs in your face. The problem is, by the time it can be identified by the sufferer’s red cheeks, it’s too late; they have already passed the disease around.

  There is nothing you can do but treat the resulting flu-like symptoms and wait for the next weirdly named virus to come and say hello.

  HAND, FOOT AND MOUTH DISEASE

  High temperature? Sore throat? Cranky as fuck? Little blisters on your mouth, your tongue, hands and feet? These are the symptoms that herald hand, foot and mouth disease. Try to steer clear of the blisters, which can burst and secrete a liquid, which is one of the ways it is spread. Lovely! One redeeming feature of the disease is that it only a mild illness and doesn’t hang around for long.

  CHICKEN POX

  My nemesis. One disastrous summer, I was responsible for spreading chicken pox to no fewer than six families. Well, it wasn’t me personally, but my virus-ridden offspring. Of course I didn’t do it deliberately! I’m not that much of an arsehole.

  You see, we were holidaying with several other families, enjoying a glorious summer, with long days on the beach and long evenings of barbeques and beer. The kids all played together nicely; it was positively idyllic.

  Little did we know the evil that was about to be unleashed.

  A spot. A tiny spot. So small, all alone. Nothing, really.

  But within an hour, it had a couple of mates. Uh-oh . . .

  By the end of the day, my child looked like an angry red dot-to-dot puzzle.

  Within weeks, the epidemic had spread to all the children who had summered together; even those who were immunised were not spared a mild dose. But it was the father of one of the holidaying families who was hit hardest. His face was probably described as an untarred road, and for two weeks he spent his time either in the bath or in bed.

  Again, apologies to all those affected. And now, let’s now put it behind us.

  FEBRILE SEIZURES

  There are more childhood diseases than you can poke a stick at. We’ve got your mumps and your flu. What about measles and whooping cough? And then you have your allergies and asthma. But I ducked and weaved around these common ailments when I was a kid. I went for something much more dramatic, something more attention-seeking, something way more serious . . .

  The febrile seizure!

  I am not sure how it began, or even why, but sometimes I would heat up like a little radiator and then have a fit. Because I never saw it happen from the outside, I’ve had to rely on my mum to describe exactly what happened. Apparently it was not relaxing for her.

  She has related times when she was driving along and glanced into the rear-view mirror only to see me behaving like I had been placed in an electric chair, with my eyes rolled back in my head. She would pull over and stick her finger in my mouth to hold my tongue down so I didn’t swallow it. According to Mum, I damn near bit her finger off!

  She took me to specialists all over Sydney, each of whom ran tests on me. Not one of these specialists could give her a diagnosis. So the seizures just became a part of my everyday life.

  ‘Mum, she’s having a fit again,’ one of my siblings would call out casually, and Mum would race in to find me having a seizure while said sibling calmly continued watching The Wonderful World of Disney. I would come to just in time to catch the end of Herbie Goes Bananas.

  ‘Mum, she’s doing it again . . .’ And Mum would race out to the backyard to find me fitting away while we tried to put the cat into a dress.

  My febrile seizures were responsible for mum turning prematurely grey, so she says.

  It turned out that this was not a serious condition, but it was potentially embarrassing, especially if you accidentally pissed your pants in front of your friends. After a few months of keeping everyone on their toes, the seizures became less and less frequent, until one day they stopped.

  I’d lost my party trick.

  WORMS

  Every few months, Mum would give us a special treat—an unusual kind of chocolate, which had a gritty kind of texture.

  Coincidentally, this usually happened at a time when we were horrendously whiny.

  ‘You must have worms!’

  Or had insatiable appetites.

  ‘You must have worms!’

  Or could not stop scratching our bottoms.

  ‘You must have worms!’

  Worms seemed to cop the blame for most things, and it is a tradition that has carried over to the next generation. But what exactly are they?

  Threadworms are disgusting parasites that can grow up to 1.5 centimetres long. Apparently you can look for them around the anus, but I’m more inclined just to assume the kids are carrying them if any of the common symptoms occur, and treat accordingly. It is not the actual anus that worries me, but what I would do if I actually spotted a worm. Which I assume would be to hurl my cookies.

  You get worms from direct contact with people who have them, or by touching doorknobs, taps and the like that have been touched by people who have them. And much like head lice, they do not discriminate.

  The sad fact is, if you have kids at school, you will come across one, two or all of the wonderful extras that goes along with students sitting in close proximity, sneezing and coughing on each other, scratching their bumholes and opening doors. It is just a fact of life.

  And unless you build a sheep-dip type contraption at your front door, such ailments are here to stay.

  *scratches head*

  20

  O CAPTAIN!

  O Captain! My Captain! Our fearful trip is done,

  The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,

  The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

  While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

  But O heart! Heart! Heart!

  O the bleeding drops of red,

  Where on the deck my Captain lies,

  Fallen cold and dead.

  WALT WHITMAN

  Okay, so primary school politics is probably not as dramatic as that, but there is a certain amount of intrigue regarding the selection process of the school leadership team. To be honoured with a school captain’s badge—well, that is just about the highest pinnacle of achievement for parents all over the country.

  And my parents should know, with a strike rate of four out of five. The fifth being me.

  I was the black sheep of the shining, socially brilliant, thoughtful, intelligent and sporty band of siblings that gathered at the family dining table each evening. As the rest of them rattled off lists of the day’s achievements, I would push my food around my plate in silence. Occasionally I was able to regale them with irrelevant tales, like how I got assaulted by Libby Taylor.

  Hell, even though it’s irrelevant, I bet you’d like to hear it too . . .

  Each Thursday after school, I caught the bus to the local pool for my swimming lesson. And each Thursday, I would be followed from the bus stop to the pool by the evil Libby Taylor, a girl whose excessive nastiness was matched by her exceedingly good aim. Lizzy would chuck rocks and insults at me for about a block. I found it very traumatic.

  But my weekly agony at the hands of Lizzy Taylor evoked no interest, not when my siblings were getting picked for the debating team, winning a scholarship to this or that, or going on some student exchange to Dubbo (where you were to be billeted out with a family that hopefully were quite normal, and not vegetarian!) or, the holy grail, being elected school captain.

  The school captain was actually elected by the students, so you’d think that the most popular kid at school would romp it in. But that never happened, because quite often the most popular person was the least suitable person, so in the end
the staff chose.

  Still, the candidates had to go through the motions, running a campaign in which you shared your vision for the school and implored others to vote for you. There was a speech, a presentation and many meet-and-greets. Ambitious mothers would bake cupcakes all night for their offspring to give out as bribes.

  The ideal school captain is an all-rounder, involved in all aspects of school and community life. It helps if you are academic, sporty, do something with a musical instrument and, maybe, just maybe, are slightly religious. The challenge is that you need to appeal to both students and teachers. So on the one hand you need to convince the punters that you are very likely to cut the length of the school day dramatically and are committed to having a vending machine in every classroom, while on the other you have to suck up to the teachers. Perhaps remind them that you haven’t had a sick day all year, as much due to your commitment to your academic career as to your robust health. And volunteer for everything! Put your hand up to visit old people in the local aged-care home. Bring in a cake for the teachers to enjoy at their staff meeting. Run the MS Read-a-thon, the Skip-a-thon, the Mother’s Day stall. Be everything to everyone. But be aware that even this strategy might fail.

  The shit really went down at one Catholic primary school in the Hunter district of New South Wales when, despite the student vote overwhelmingly favouring two popular students, the principal relegated them to the lesser positions of vice-captain and instead awarded the top jobs to two kids whose parents worked in the Catholic education system.

  There was such an outcry that the local diocese was forced to carry out an investigation into the voting process. The principal was cleared of any wrongdoing. Dirty deeds, done dirt cheap? Perhaps. But let us remember that we are talking about eleven-year-olds here.

  Despite my parents’ encouragement, I didn’t even bother to run for the position of school captain. It was obvious to me that Kim Johnson had it in the bag. I mean, she was a state runner, for Christ’s sake! She was smart, she had hair that always looked shiny and nice, and her uniform was always impeccably ironed. She was not likely to kiss any boys in the library at lunchtime behind the hanging wall of big books, nor was she likely to sit up the back of the bus. Kim Johnson danced in a wholesome way at school socials. While me? Not so much.

  The standout of the whole campaign that year, however, was this one boy who gave his nomination speech in the accent of Michael Crawford’s character Frank, from the British TV series Some Mothers Do ’Ave ’Em. He had the whole school weeping with laughter. From memory, he even kind of looked like Frank.

  ‘Oh, Betty . . .’ he would begin, causing us all to erupt hysterically.

  On completion of his speech, he waved his hands in victory, and was promptly given a standing ovation.

  He did not get the role. But he should have.

  My older sister (school captain, North Richmond Public School, 1984) has three children, all of whom were school captains. She is considering running some sort of course in how to groom your kids for greatness.

  But, really, does being a primary school captain have any bearing on the future course of your life? Are you likely to get that promotion into middle management because you won a school election twenty years ago?

  The short answer is no. No one cares. At the time it can be a huge big deal, but the truth is, it means nothing. Bragging rights for your parents, but that’s about it. Oh, and you get to sit on the stage during assemblies.

  SCHOOL MOTTOS

  Here’s another inspiring story about the perils of primary school:

  My school motto at primary school was ‘Be Sensible’. Forget inspiring Latin quotes, strive and you will achieve, what we receive we shall pass on. We were far more practical at Narrabeen North—‘Be Sensible’. I probably should have taken this on board one sunny spring day at little lunch when I decided to do the death drop off the monkey bars. You perched yourself in a sitting pose on top of the bars and then fell backwards with your legs looped around the bar resulting in a perfect dismount, or in my case a broken arm. The ambulance in the playground was exciting for all. The best part of this story is that later that day at lunch time my friend was demonstrating to a large audience how I had broken my arm. Amanda was very good at the death drop but her luck had run out. She also broke her arm, two ambulances in the playground in one day—and Amanda and I became primary school legends.

  21

  WE ARE GATHERED HERE TODAY

  Ah, school assemblies. Has there ever really been a need for them?

  Our school assembly was the most bum-numbing, brain-sapping, head-scratching (if you had lice) time of the week. We would file into the old hall, where we were seated according to our year level, with kindy kids up the front and Year 6 down the back. The hall was invariably like an oven in summer and an igloo in winter. These climatic extremes were combated either by two listless ceiling fans or a single lame bar heater.

  The hall was a traditional one, with a stage up one end bedecked with nasty old red-velvet curtains with gold trim. On the walls were hung Boards of Merit, listing past school captains, principals and recipients of the dux award. The rest of the decor was given over to fire extinguishers and plentiful signs to indicate the whereabouts of the fire escapes. The hall was adjacent to the canteen, you see, where the cooking was done, and the whole thing was made of timber.

  The deputy principal, wearing long shorts, long socks and slip-on shoes in a pale hue, would tell us all to shut the fuck up (but in slightly more acceptable words), and then he would do that trick where you just stand there . . . doing . . . nothing. (Yes, the old waiting trick I went on to use myself when I was a teacher.) He just stood there, hoping that us kids would eventually notice that he was about to completely lose his shit and quieten down. Sometimes it worked, but more often it didn’t, so he would make an example of someone, usually Shane Ryan, and send him or her to the office with the promise of dire consequences for his rowdy behaviour. This was usually enough to induce the rest of us to, well, shut the fuck up.

  ‘Please stand.’

  The deputy would then invite Year 3 teacher, Mrs Browne, who was eighty-seven in the shade, to lead the school in singing ‘God Save the Queen’. Watched on by a portrait of the great lady, we would tunelessly bellow our expressions of loyalty.

  ‘Please be seated.’

  We sank back onto the floor (those cold hard floorboards were a pain in the arse, literally) as, one by one, self-important teachers stood up to hector us on dull subjects like rubbish bins, or bike racks, or one of any number of other things that we were doing wrong.

  It was then time for the Assembly Item. Perhaps, for something different, the Year 1 class might favour us with a percussion version of ‘Popcorn.’

  And then we were on to the class awards. This was when the principal himself, a man in long shorts, long socks and slip-on shoes in a pale hue, would make an appearance. Scratching his moustache, he would ask us to please wait until the end of the ceremony to show our admiration for the chosen ones.

  ‘Class KM, Jenny Bolton, for having a wonderful smile . . .’

  And the crowd would go WILD!

  The principal would remind us to please save our applause until the end.

  ‘Class 1S, Brett Dalrymple, for going a week without crying . . .’

  Hysterical cheering, thunderous applause.

  Sighing, the principal gave up, and rattled through the rest of the list as quickly as he could.

  When at last he was done, he would ask us to stand for the school prayer.

  This is our school

  Let peace dwell here

  Let the room be full of contentment

  Let love abide here

  Love of one another

  Love of life itself

  And love of God.

  Let us remember

  That as many hands

  Built a house

  So many hearts

  Make a school.

  Amen.


  And we would singsong away, without a clue as to what it actually meant.

  22

  LET US PRAY (OR NOT)

  Whether you were religious or not, scripture classes were an inevitable part of primary school when I was growing up. Sure, there were the odd outliers, like the kids from the Jehovah’s Witness family who got to go outside when we recited the school prayer in assembly. These same kids would also avoid any religious-based festivities. I remember being aghast to learn that they didn’t get birthday gifts or Christmas presents. I mean, where was their incentive to keep living?

  For the rest of us, though, scripture classes were just another part of the curriculum, like art or sport. Your parents had the choice to send you to either Catholic or Church of England, and that was it. The Jehovah’s Witness kids went to the library. Welcome to your first experience of segregation based on religion!

  The scripture teachers were all elderly members of the local churches, and try as they might, they were unable to maintain control over any of the classes I attended.

  It is safe to say we Woogs are not religious. (Although I probably should be thankful I am here at all. You see my dad was training to be a priest when my mum stole him from Jesus. Boom, chickie-bow-wow indeed.)

  When it was time for my eldest to start primary school, we had to decide which scripture he should do. Mr Woog has an extreme aversion to organised religion and was insistent that he did ‘non-scripture’, whereas I was of the opinion that if there were lessons in anything on offer, then we should put our hands up.

  So we decided that our kids would study a year of every faith, starting with Judaism. My kids are across that now, as well as Baha’i, Catholicism and Church of England (well, their basic principles at the very least).

  Me? I worship weekly at the Church of Chatswood Chase, our local shopping centre, where the congregation are expected to wear tight jeans, long black boots, a white long-sleeved t-shirt under a puffer vest, and finish it off with a Bugaboo Pram. There may also be a Pandora bracelet involved.