A New Day Dawns

6.15: The sound of what can only be described as a very bad 1970s margarine commercial starts entering my state of conscious until I realise and simultaneously lurch to the ‘smart’ phone - kill the dreadful sound and pray I didn’t wake little miss. I pry my child’s feet out from under my rib cage and manage to remove myself without disturbing sleeping child – victory! 

And so my first attempt to get up before my children and be more organised and just generally more calm … has begun….

6.25: I stagger into the cold and darkish kitchen only to realise in order for children to stay asleep I can’t make the coffee – suddenly rethinking this idea very quickly.

6.30: Sit at the table and think about what work I have to do today & decide I need to do something far more meaningful at this hour so think about making nourishing warm porridge for the family – only to find we have about 3 oats in the jar.

6.40: Sit back at the table and contemplate shopping lists.

7.15: All of a sudden Boy Wonder sprints in and disturbs my shopping list contemplation, which is just as well, because I hadn’t really got past oats.

7.25: Decide to throw complete caution to the wind and make the Boy Wonder toast with what can only be described as liquid chocolate masquerading as nut spread (yes, you can always tell when Dad goes shopping) – but if its good enough for the Italian kiddies - its good enough for mine – especially on the days they aren’t at home with me !

7.40: I can no longer hold out - Coffee grinder into action, kettle on and blowing away and then everyone is up.

8.00:  Attempt to tune into intellectual discussion on the radio – asylum seekers asylum seekers asylum seekers – that’s about all I got over the incessant demands for “more toast” (its going down a treat I tell ya); questions about why we didn’t get up early and the suitability of this breakfast item on a week day (I think about pointing out I was up and the suitability of buying the chocolate spread at all - but don’t – all part of the new calm me); more demands for water, more toast, just more everything and “did you know that in India people cook with fire made from cow poo ?”.  During this time I am preparing lunches for people (at speed).

8.15: Partner in crime exits out the back door (with lunch) and I stop moving to take two sips of coffee. 

8.30: Realise I stopped moving for way too long and that I must begin my very own Olympic like hurdles race challenge that I face everyday at the moment - its called – ‘Getting my children dressed’ (!). This involves a lot of running, a stop watch, continual shouts of encouragement and C”MON, and a collapsing to the floor thanking whoever for the sheer joy that it has been achieved.

8.40: Start the United Nations like negotiations to get teeth cleaned and hair brushed and up in some semblance of order  - in the case of little Miss (gave up all such pretense with Boy Wonder a long time ago).

8.45: Back for two more sips of coffee – think about food (no time) but take vitamins instead (much quicker & can be washed down with coffee)

8.50:  Attempt to find jeans (on the floor where I left them last night), jumper (next to jeans), scrounge in the 3 laundry baskets of clean clothes for other miscellaneous items, and then swipe some age reducing cream over my face. Keep thinking - why is it I still feel late when I got up earlier? This shouldn’t be happening !

8.57: Locate children and herd to the door – catch the runaway – and re-shepherd back to the door, remember that I need keys and stupid phone – which is where???… that’s right … under the pillow where it all started … find phone, (continually running at this stage), relocate children -  shift the lot out the door

9.05: We are out of the house ! (late, disheveled, not very calm)

It can only get better … right?

   

School Daze

When I was a kid (and I admit that was a while ago), there was a very straightforward scenario that went like this .... when you were old enough to go to school - off you went to school - your local school, just like the kids in your street and the street next to that, the black kids, the white kids, the kids whose dad had a professional job and those whose dad drove a truck - all went to the local school - the only ones who didn't were the Catholics - but who knew what they got up to. That scenario was the beginning, the middle and the end of 'going to school' (until High School... anyway). Every time I moved house the scenario was the same - new house, new friends in the street, new local school that everyone went to - except the Catholics  - and in case you were thinking we moved to find a better local school - that just wasn't a concept around in those days. School was school - they had a stuffy old male principle in shorts and long socks, teachers (some good, some better - some old and some new, some strict and some not), classrooms with their bright green and blue carpet and matching little chairs, a sporting oval, sporting carnivals where the same kids always got all the medals every year (because kids won and lost in those days - no concept of everyone being a winner- didn't stop us all trying either), school discos where you did bush dancing or even the penguin dance, parent and teacher nights, your dad on the P & C, excursions to exciting places like the wood mill and a sheep farm, MS read-a-thons, the 'how did i get here' film night that made you squirm, the canteen where your mum didn't serve people unless they said please (more squirming), and all the bits in between from kindergarten to year 6 including report cards.  
Thinking about how straight forward it all seems I just can't imagine what my parents did for conversation without having to sit around talking/agonising about what school their kids should go to, what pedagogical philosophy they thought suited us best, or thinking up inventive ways they could fake an address to get us in another local school which everyone (who doesn't go there) seems convinced is for some reason so much better than theirs. 
The fact is that way back then a lot of parents believed in public education - and for good reason -  because generally it was good, it was free and it was a part of the fabric of the community.  Parents used it, supported it and believed it delivered a solid education in the basics (although I don't think they even thought about them as basics then - it was just an education).  
So now some decades later I find myself continually thinking about the choices (or lack of choice) I feel I have because I only have the local school, and the angst I feel in my minority status as a parent sending their child to their local school and that somehow I have let my child down, wishing all the parents in the streets of 6163 (even the Catholics) were doing the same and not thinking twice about it (let alone a thousand times).