Five Weeks

Dear Parents,

Chill out.  You've still got five weeks to go.  That's five whole weeks with your children. I've seen you, in the Supermarket, in town, at the park.  And you are letting it get to you. It will be a very long five weeks if you don't unwind a little.

You will notice us teachers, looking calm, relaxed, twenty years younger than we did last week.  We are the ones sauntering down the supermarket aisle, whistling as we think what we might like to eat tonight.  We could cook something extravagant with our new-found energy or maybe we'll just get some cheese to eat with all the wine and chocolate that you so kindly bought us.  You will see us in town sitting having a coffee, that lasts hours, while you (Dads in particular) drag your children across the road, ignoring the crossings because you just, "don't have time for this!" We will be the one's in the library with a huge stack of books to checkout, smiling at your screaming child, who will not go and tell the nice lady about the book she has just read and who doesn't care about the stupid reading challenge anyway.  Reading challenges are not a problem for us, we've waited seven weeks for enough energy to read more than a page without falling asleep.  We will be the people in the park, whose dogs are genuinely smiling because this is the longest walk they've had in ages and they are allowed to stop and sniff whenever they like.  We will tell your children that they can stroke the dog and watch the relief on your faces when you realise that the tantrum over whether it is legal to have an ice cream before midday has disappeared as quickly as it arrived (By the way it isn't.  Ice creams can only be consumed after noon.  My children are grown up now but it is still a law they stick to).  The teachers are the only parents who aren't stressed in the company of their offspring.  One or two certainly seems preferable to thirty.

When I was in the Supermarket today I saw some very harrassed parents.  Children are unpredictable and difficult.  They have questions that you might not have the answers to.  They want to do their own thing; they have their own ideas and they are unintentionally rude.

I was getting my trolley and  I walked in front of a little girl of about nine who had just collected one for her mum.

"Whoops.  I'm sorry," I said, "I wasn't looking where I was going.  Isn't it a lovely day?  Can you hear that blackbird?  He sounds so happy."
The little girl drew a huge breath, probably to tell me everything she knew about blackbirds when her mum shouted,  "Be careful, Petunia.  I told you to watch where you was going."
Petunia looked at me and sighed, "Technically Mum, it was that girl's fault."
"Girl?" I thought and suddenly I loved Petunia, "It was," I told her mum, "I wasn't looking where I was going."
The mum ignored me, lines furrowed into her brow and her voice the pitch of a rusty circular saw.  "That's not a girl.  It's a lady."
Petunia looked at me, back at her mum and then at me again and put her hands on her hips before pushing the trolley to catch up with her family.
"Oh mum.  I think you need to get your glasses on.  This girl is sooo much younger than you are."

 I saw Petunia again in the bread aisle, where she was sobbing into the rolls because her brother was now pushing the trolley and it wasn't fair.  Her mum looked ready to explode.

The whole shop was gripped with whinging children and shouting, stressed parents. I picked up a cake muttering to myself, "It's an apple turnover sort of day," and an old lady laughed.  She said, "You've just cheered me up.  It's horrible in here.  I was just wondering if I should call Social Services."
The lad restocking the shelves with bread said, "It's just the start. It will get much worse before it's over."

A little boy said to his mum, "It's an apple turnover sort of day.  That lady said so."  His mum looked at him, smiled and said, "What big ears you have Mister Wolf.  Shall we get some for lunch?"
The old lady asked her, "Why?"
"Why, what? Apple turnovers are nice." she puzzled.
"Why aren't you like everyone else?  Everyone else would have shouted, 'not now. We don't have time to think about cake,' and then there would have been crying and maybe a slap."
"Well," the mother said, thoughtfully, "I'm a teacher."

If you are not a teacher and you are finding the school holidays stressful then please remember that it's only just begun.  Try to smile.  Try to laugh.  Your children are amazing and they will be grown up and moving to Coventry before you know it.  Then you will regret all the times you didn't think it was an Apple Turnover sort of day.

Enjoy the next five weeks.

From a former grumpy old woman who is a happy girl (for the next 5 weeks).

Furious

Today I'm furious; incandescent with boiling, simmering, seething rage and the only way to deal with my ire is to write a ranting blog. Sorry.

The front page of today's Telegraph newspaper runs with the headline, "Jail for those who ignore child abuse." The sub heading lets us know that 'those' are social workers, teachers and local councillors. 

Wow!

Did someone sit in their plush office, surrounded by luxury before they popped off to their country estate for the weekend and think, "Oh dear, this child sex abuse might be a problem now that it's in my constituency, better find someone to blame before the general election." ?

What complete and utter crap! (Sorry, I did warn you I was angry). It's bollocks.

Society has just noticed that something awful happens to certain vulnerable teenage girls (occasionally boys too) in that they become easy targets for men who want to have sex with very young women (or men). This isn't particularly new but society has noticed an is outraged. I say it's not new because I remember a girl called Clare at school, who was picked up by her 35 year old boyfriend, Simon in his car. Many girls were impressed and asked Clare if Simon had any friends, which he was more than happy to provide. All the girls who met these men were sort of happy. They didn't really remember the sex because they were too drunk but they were convinced that they were loved, often for the first time. As a listener, I knew this was wrong. I knew they were being exploited and as someone who had been loved unconditionally by parents who gave me books I knew that this wasn't love. Did I report it? Of course not. Should I have gone to jail? Actually, that's irrelevant because I wasn't a social worker, teacher or local councillor at the time. 

Social workers are working with vulnerable children and their, often manipulative, parents in conditions where they often don't have time to pee. They are paid quite a small salary. They spend their working hours talking to children and their weekends and evenings writing up reports, documenting every horrific thing that was said to them. They want to help but are chronically under-resourced, tired and unsupported. If they do get enough evidence to go to court then some fancy lawyer gets Simon off on a technicality because he has a flash car and lots of money and is able to argue that Clare was more than happy with the situation. (Clare by this point is hooked on heroin and is pregnant with a child she won't know how to love). 

Teachers work with all sorts of children to try to make them learn stuff in conditions where they hardly have any time to pee. They are paid quite a small salary. They teach them all day and write reports  in the evening and at weekends. They want to help but they are chronically under resourced, tired and unsupported. If a child tells them something they are not happy with it will go through the beaurocracy of child protection and it might end up in court, where Simon's fancy lawyer will argue that Clare was more than happy with the situation.

Local councillors rarely see children. They have a day job in something completely unrelated and give up their evenings and weekends to attend boring meeting and write long reports. They are not paid.

I'm seeing a pattern and many of these professionals are women.

For Gods sake!!! How about we send Simon to jail? How about we send the Prime Minister to jail for allowing these professionals to work in conditions where they are under resourced, tired and unsupported? Stop picking on the wrong people.

The worst of it is that any teacher or social worker I know who missed something that lead to a child being harmed would never forgive themselves. Aren't  they suffering enough already?