Too Cool At School

Parents are meant to be embarrassing. Everybody knows that. Except that I was secretly planning on *not* being an embarrassment to my children. I was going to be The Exception, always remaining cool and popular, a bit like Rodney Dangerfield in”Back To School”, except, well, actually cool.  

But two recent events have proved me wrong.

First, when I turned up to take part in the Literacy & Numeracy Week Open Day activities in Mr Justice’s class, he did not want to know me. Not even when I poked him repeatedly. Go figure. 

Second, I saw him physically balk when I told him I was going to school assembly to see him get his Pupil of the Week Award. The grand irony was that he was getting it for “excellent sharing skills during maths games in Numeracy & Literacy Week” and, since he didn’t bring any actual games to play, I assumed he was being rewarded for sharing his mother with the class. I mean, all the other parents in attendance sat and played Monopoly with their offspring and I ended up playing endless rounds of Uno and Connect 4 with children not of my loins because my own son wouldn’t even look at me. So it was “sharing” in the same sense that one might “share” something they do not want. Like a chocolate biscuit that you’ve already licked all the chocolate off.  

Anyway, I decided to try and make light of Mr Justice’s obvious embarrassment about the school assembly. “Can I clap loudly and whoop when they call your name?” I said jokingly. 

He looked even more horrified. 

So I said “It’s okay. I won’t do that. I know that’s against Principle Brett’s rules. I also know not to take my trousers off and run around the hall shouting ‘Boobies!'”.

Yes, I really said that to my seven year old son. No wonder he’s so embarrassed of me. Still, I got a smile out of him – until, of course, Tiddles McGee took my lead and started shouting “Boobies! Boobies!” at the top of his lungs. 

“Uh, could you please make sure McGee doesn’t shout that during assembly?” Mr Justice pleaded with me, panicking somewhat.

“Of course, of course!” I said, swiftly removing Tiddles McGee from the room. 

Cut to: Assembly. As Mr Justice’s class walked into the hall, half of the kids jumped and down, shouting “Hi [NDM]!” when they saw me. They love me, they really love me – if only because I buy their love with cupcakes. But Mr Justice? He played it cool, boy. Real cool. 

Even when he got up to accept his award, he only shot me a couple of fleeting glances before looking determinedly away. On the hall’s stage, he looked like such a Big Boy, but still with the shadow of his baby-self playing across his face, as he frowned, a little uncertain and nervous. 

And as I sat at the back of the hall, smiling and waving at my unseeing child, I felt so very proud and ever-so-slightly hurt. 

And I thought to myself:  this is necessary for him, this slow separation from his mother as he moves from babyhood to adulthood. I thought: at least at home he still loves me and throws his arms around my neck, squeezes me tight and covers my face with kisses.

I thought: more than ever before, every hug is precious.

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An Assembly to Remember

The whole “Pupil of the Week” thing at primary schools is a little bit contentious: while some teachers award them only when they feel it has truly been earned, others dole them out every single week to a rotating roster of students for things like “For doing your personal best”, “For being next in line to receive Pupil of the Week” and probably even “Because it’s all good” (Is it? Is it??). 

However, I’m extremely proud to announce that Mr Justice’s recent award was for his “extreme enthusiasm and creativity when story-writing”. I got a big kick out of the word “extreme” because I imagined his teacher and fellow students all cowering in the corner, a bit fearful that Mr Justice’s creative enthusiasm might blow any minute, much like his mother’s cold sore. Or even, as one of my readers (and facebook friends) Nellie remarked, he might have been “writing stories while balancing a chain saw on his nose while walking on a wire.” A remark I chose not to share with Mr Justice just in case he got himself any wild ideas.

Anyway, Mr Justice’s award meant I had to go to assembly for the first time this year. Since The Pixie’s one and only kindergarten session is on the same morning, that time slot represents the only two and a half hours in a week where I regularly just have one child at home with me. Those mornings, it feels like I’ve died and gone to heaven, except that I’m A) still in dire need of a apronectomy and B) still in charge of one child. But what the hey, at least it’s not three (and I still have somewhere nifty to balance my champagne glass when watching TV). So, call me selfish, but I’m not going to blow even ten minutes of that precious precious time hanging out at the school, much like a dog returning to its own vomit, unless I absolutely have to. So because Mr Justice was getting his award, I duly lugged Tiddles to the school gymnasium with the intention of hotfooting it to the cafe for some urgent recaffeination at the earliest opportunity – my own little reward for enduring Mr J’s award. 

And so my heart sank just a little when the first thing the Principal told us was that this was to be a very special assembly. It turns out some of the senior school boys had been taking part in an African drumming workshop and were going to put on a “special show” for us. And by “special”, I immediately assumed that he just meant “long”. It was like someone had been dangling a latte on a string in front of me and then suddenly yoiked it away – I think I might have even teared up a little. 

However, the first bit of drumming was great and I soon perked up. The teacher – a handsome man from the Horn of Africa whom I shall call S – had obviously worked long and hard with these boys, who were drumming with great (extreme?) enthusiasm. Then everyone on the stage swapped instruments and they appeared to do the same song again. And then they swapped instruments a third time and I felt one of my caffeine-withdrawal headaches coming on until suddenly… S got up to dance. It was like some of Mr Justice’s finest and most manic moves all rolled into one routine – including a cheeky waggle of his bottom at the crowd. S was working that crowd like it was Live 8: he grabbed hold of the microphone, he got the kids, parents and teachers all up on their feet to dance and – just when we thought it couldn’t get any more exciting – he took off his shirt. 

Oh yes. Shirt. Off.  

The kids went wild but their enthusiasm came nowhere near that of the (predominantly female) staff and the mothers in the room, whose suddenly beaming faces betrayed them all, every single one. Later on, after school, Mr Justice said he really liked it when S took his shirt off because he thought he was going to take his undies off too. “It wasn’t that kind of ‘special show’,” I replied, with just a hint of regret in my voice. 

After the drumming spectacular finished, the principal thanked S and the boys and went back to reading out notices, stopping from time to time to say what a memorable assembly it had been. I looked around the room and by the flushed looks on the faces of the women in the room, I doubted they could even remember their own names at that moment, let alone register that their own child’s name had just been called to take their Pupil of the Week Award. But hell, if every assembly is like that, here’s hoping Mr Justice’s next Student of the Week Award ain’t too far away, rewarding of mediocrity and all that.

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