This week I went to an information session held by our local school. Son's due to start school next year and I think you're supposed to suss out the place before you start dropping them off to spend the majority of their waking hours for the next six years or so.
The morning opened with the choir singing an ABBA song. At that point, I looked at my husband and said "where do we sign".
That's all I needed to know. My boy could learn reading, writing and 'rithmatic any old place but for the love of all that is sacred and holy, at what other educational institution will he learn the words to Mamamia? (NB: I'm pretty new to this game. It could be that 70s pop anthems are taught state-wide, alls I know is, I likes it!)
However, some of the other parents who, in their hybrow wisdom and of course obvious love and concern for the cultivation of their little darlings' minds, needed a few more answers before commiting to this particular learning environment.
Some wanted to know about class size and homework policy.
Others, possibly unaware that their child is only 5, wanted to know whether philosphy was on the curriculum. (I am not making that up).
The worst part of the experience for me was trying to give a convincing performance that I had a dust particle in my eye causing untold irritation and weeping. I could not stop crying. It may have had something to do with the moving presentation the school had put together about school days, all the lovely things kids do there as well as the fun and joy that emenates into the universe when little people learn and grow.
My child wasn't even in the room, or in school uniform, or at this point necessarily going to this particular school, but my tear ducts can get a tad over-dramatic at times.
Home renovation shows have the same effect on me. So, did Steve Waugh's retirement from one-day cricket.
Pretty much anything you can communicate via moving pictorial montage with a touching soundtrack and I'm guaranteed to start blubbering over.
In fact, if the government told us about tax hikes and interest rate rises this way, I'd surely shake my head, the tears would flow and I'd feel a little surge of love for those gorgeous, hard working politico buggers in Canberra. Throw in an ABBA number and I'd be on the floor.
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