Ah, the joys of Education Day. The school choir singing a frigid medley of Mary Poppins songs in the windy playground. The school dance troupe swaying in Kate Bush-style Wuthering Heights outfits to Adele. Attempting to recreate Van Gogh’s Starry Night with crayons and a six-year-old. Being asked to fashion a “walker” during the “pipe-cleaner people” craft session so the eight-year-old’s creation could stand unaided. Getting pins and needles while huddling on teeny little school chairs reading the Sprogs’ “My Weekend” diaries and seeing their unique take on the family’s leisure activities thus far this year. The word “boring” came up quite a bit and both kids shamelessly revealed they’d been reduced to tears by their cruel parents.
One of Sprog 2’s said: “Daddy yelled at me, then Mummy yelled at me and I cried.”
Although, one of her classmates had written this cheery entry: “My grandfather died. I got to have muffins and cupcakes.”
Her mum enjoyed reading that one.
One of Sprog 1’s said: “Daddy sent me to my room and I cried”
Generally, the recounts of the weekend were more about what they didn’t get to do.
“I was sick so I had to stay home. It was boring”
“My sister was sick so I couldn’t go to the movies. It was boring.”
“We didn’t do anything. It was BORING BORING BORING.”
Pretty outrageous considering the Sprogs get to do waaaaaay more stuff than I ever got to do as a kid. I hadn’t even been on a plane until I was in my 20s (far earlier than my grandmother, who didn’t take her first plane flight until her 60s)
At morning tea we sat cross-legged on – what one mum described as “unforgiving” – astroturf for a morning tea of Chicken In A Biscuits and apple slices. Actually, that part was quite fun, I hadn’t eaten a Chicken In A Biscuit for YEARS. It really took me back.
A bit like last night, when I went to a pub in Surry Hills to meet some old friends from the ’80s and Wang Chung’s Dance Hall Days started playing on the sound system.
But more about that later. I’m off to jail now. With a hangover, as usual. God bless the Golden Arches in West Ryde.
housegoeshome 
Be glad the Sprogs aren’t like my wretched daughter. Whe she was in Infants, the teacher put together a little book and a copy was sent home with each rugrat. Each kid had written something about their parents’ occupations. In amongst all the entries…’my Dad fixes cars, my Mum helps in an office etc etc, was my daughter’s contribution: ‘My Dad is the boss at his work. My Mummy just flounces around the house all day’!! Yep, she’d overheard her father accusing me of that. From then on I was known among the other parents as ‘The Flouncer’. Nice!
Leanne, that’s hilarious. I LOVE it.