School reports
January 26, 2010
My dad told us a story at our Ozzie Day barbecue today. As a child he mooched about with cousins who were identical twins. Their teacher was unable to consistently identify them correctly. She solved that little problem quick smart. She wrote the name of each child on their forehead. It seems that 1950s primary schools in rural southern Italy must have been all out of sticky labels. I know I’m glad that 3M products are now available.
My best friend at primary school was a chubby girl with a searingly fast self-depreacting sense of humour, even as a 10 year old. In the middle years, just as we all started to gain some self-consciousness, I remember one notorious little boy ‘getting into trouble’ big time. Punishment was doled out. He was made to hold hands all day with my best friend. I think I knew even then, circa 1978, that this wasn’t entirely, hmmm, correct.
School. It’s about to happen all over again for this little generation that Big Boy and I have spawned. It means I better stop training for the negligent mother award and do something about acquiring clothes’ labels and a school bag. Ginger starts her academic career in five days. Yikes! She insists that the principal told her that there was a special teacher on hand to wipe childrens’ bottoms after they have gone to the loo. This was her comeback rationale to my constant haranguing about her needing to learn to wipe her own bottom. I simply can’t be at school with her every time she needs it done. “It’s okay mum. There’s a teacher at school who wipes bottoms. The principal told me.”
I don’t have many memories from grade prep. I had an inelegant haircut. it was all choppy fringe and boy short in length. I have evidence. My grade prep photo shows an excruciatingly shy four year old in puce striped Catholic school uniform, biting her lip and trying not to cry. Whether it was the haircut or my intimidation by photographic equipment, I couldn’t tell you. I remember waking up from nap time and rousing to a surreal carny scene. I was a wog child who had probably never seen a clown or a carousel or had a pony ride. Nobody told me that the school was having a visiting circus. Fellini couldn’t have thought it up. Clowns!
I have prepared Ginger for clowns, booked a haircut appointment, and considered making enquiries about a school uniform. That ought to get me some stripes.
