PAT McDERMOTT:

all set for the school daze

Before school started for our children each year, I’d search for our copy of the Dr Seuss classic Oh, The Places You’ll Go. I’d nd the ancient, dogeared, jam-smeared picture book, now held together with yellowing strips of sticky tape, under someone’s bed or stuffed down the back of a sofa.

This year I read it to my granddaughter. She held up her end of the conversation, as sparky veyear-olds do.

1. With your head full of brains and your shoes full of feet you’re too smart to go down any not-so-good street.

“This book is messy, Nanny! You should take better care of it.”

2. Whether you like it or not, alone will be something you’ll be quite a lot.

“Daddy likes to be alone. He says it’s so-o-o-o good.” 3. Be sure when you step you step with care and great tact and remember that Life’s a Great Balancing Act. “Daddy says the best way to balance is to put glue on your shoes.”

After she went home I remembered our now long-ago “ rst days of school”.

“Listen to this,” said our eldest son, waving a dog-eared paperback. “It’s Shakespeare!”

The MOTH (Man of the House) groaned. It was 8.15am. We should be in the car.

“And then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel and shining morning face, creeping like a snail unwillingly to school,” read Patrick.

“It’s one of the seven ages of man. You should hear the part about old age, Dad! No hair, no teeth, no anything!”

“He’s beginning to enjoy serious literature,” I said.

“Have you seen the magazines under his bed?” grumbled the MOTH.

There we stood, two adults, ve children and a mountain of backpacks, library bags, lunch boxes and sports gear. Shining morning faces or not, it was time to go! In the car the kids compared lunches and tried to do deals. “Two Anzac biscuits for an Oreo.” “Throw in your sultanas.”

“I’ll trade your pear for my peach?” “No. It’s squishy.”

“See your apple?”

“Yeah.”

“I licked it and put it back in the fridge.”

“Muummm!”

Arguments broke out like spot res. People were breathing on each other. There was pinching and elbowing and looking out of other people’s windows. The MOTH turned the radio up. Way up.

At the rst drop-off, Miss Fogarty, who knew the McDermotts all too well, waited in the “kiss and go” zone.

“How’s everything going so far?” I asked.

“The term’s dragging.”

Out hopped Ruff Red and off went the rest of us until everyone got where they were going.

“Goodbye! Be nice! You can too kiss your mother in public!”

At the start of every year I drew up a giant wall chart to keep track of all the school camps, birthday parties, swimming carnivals, football matches, netball games and music lessons. I’ve saved each one so that, in years to come, our children could reminisce over a bottle of “whine”.

“I believe they plan to bury the wall charts with you,” the MOTH told me gently. “Not until you go, of course! They’ll throw in the sports trophies, footie boots, hockey sticks and giant school photos too.”

“Fine by me,” I said. “One day an archaeologist with a shovel will think she’s found the Aussie equivalent of Tutankhamen’s tomb!”

If you know someone starting school or any other big thing, here’s my advice. 1. Try not to squirm. People will think you have worms.

2. Keep your hands to yourself.

3. Say sorry like you mean it.

Now, your mountain is waiting. So get on your way!