Parents

It is World Teacher day today and instead of complaining about planning or marking on a Sunday or telling you about the teachers that inspired me I thought I'd make this blog post about the people who make teacher's lives easier.  This is a tribute to good parents.  Every staffroom will have heard the constant complaints about the parent that makes life difficult for the teacher but for every one of those there are many more who have supported their child and brought them up to be well behaved and have a curiosity for the world.


Now, when I tell you about these good parents they probably don't include the man who was shouting, "You only had to sit there and bloody look at those words.  How hard was that?  If you weren't so stupid this homework wouldn't take you any time at all!" that I overheard from an open window as I walked the dog on Saturday morning.  They probably don't include the single father who threw his child at me in the swimming pool today.  This is something that irritates me, generally, because I just don't understand why Saturday Dads have to throw their children around the swimming pool.  Small children are like particles of gas in a swimming pool anyway; moving in random patterns so they will bump into you in a reasonably empty pool and they really don't need their Dad's help.  But this weekend's child catapult was summed up so eloquently by their own child.  "Dad, will you help me with my homework?  Oh well, we might as well go to MacDonald's, Mum says we only like you because you take us to MacDonald's because that's all you're good for."

This is for the parents who stand on the edge of football pitches and shout encouragement or nudge the person next to them and say, "Look at that!  I'm so proud of him."  Its for the parents who take their children to clubs: kickboxing, tennis, and to the swimming pool. It's especially for the parents who had a child each on their back and were playing 'Kangaroo races', while the children shouted, "faster, faster, higher, jump bigger!". Particularly for their mum, who had one of her false eyelashes stuck to her cheek. It's for the Dad who was trying to show his boys how to do the butterfly stroke (lots of flailing and splashing) and for praising his younger son for, "speed swimming", despite the twinkle in his eyes giving away the fact that it was more like synchronised drowning.

This is for the parents who take their children out for walks, or to the allotment. The parents that point out the beautiful sunrise or the dew on the grass. The parents who let their children throw the ball for the dog, even though the dog would much prefer it if the ball went further. The parents who let their six year old dig up the old sweetcorn plants because, "holding the bag is a seriously boring job for a small boy!" and wash the raspberries before the children eat them to remove any "snail juice" despite the fact that their child assures them that it would be OK because, "some people eat snails." 

But this is especially for the parents who bring their children to orchestra practice on Friday night. The parents who fund lessons, buy instruments and nag their kids to practise. It's for the parents who stay and help and for my parents, who despite not being teachers by profession, taught me how to teach.

Our orchestra practices are always fun. It's Friday night. There's a bit of a party atmosphere. Children arrive via MacDonald's with their balloons and hope to tie them onto their violin bows. We rehearse in a church, which we like very much because it has great acoustics and they give us a very good deal on rent. It can sometimes be tricky finding the balance between fun and respecting the church building but we always try very hard to make sure we leave it exactly as we found it. This week, however, the balloons decided not to stay attached to the bow and made their way up for a private party on the ceiling.

We knew that they would come down eventually but not in time for us to leave the church as we found it so a plan was devised. Three tubular bell tubes a wooden pole and a penknife were attached together with cable-ties, although before the balloons could be popped there had to be a quick historical enactment, which is what you get when you work with a Time Lord (history professor) and big kid who refuses to even let a heart attack on Monday stop him coming out to play on a Friday.

While the children were playing tag and eating sweets in the lobby (we're not completely useless at the health and safety stuff) our tallest parent helper worked to pop the balloons.

The rest of us watched, holding our breath as the balloons refused to pop. Eventually though, they were hooked by their string and pulled to the edge.

Although, one balloon was popped (we did rescue it and I will give it to myself as a birthday present if I'm still feeling a bit Eeyore) the other lived to go home and get tied to a violin bow in a room with a lower ceiling.

Thank you, parents.