I go through phases with this blog. I have a mad dash for creativity now and then, and force myself to upload a post. Sometimes I create a draft, leave it for a day or two, reconsider it over a glass of fizzy stuff (the aforementioned hobo-boot liquor that is Lambrini) and delete it forever. Don’t worry, you didn’t miss much. Just ramblings and typos. And then I will ignore this blog for - literally - years at a time. I started this blog in the autumn of 2015, knowing full well that I was talking to myself. I don’t often feel the need to talk to myself, but today was a day for an internal monologue that screams to be written down.
In case you didn’t know (and you probably don’t, because I haven’t posted for 9 months) but I am now a fully qualified teaching assistant, with training in assisting with Special Educational Needs. I was inspired by some of the people I came into contact with once my own children started school. Everyday heroes. The saviours of our next generation. Those with the patience of a Saint. In a word: Legends. You know who I mean. Teachers. Teaching Assistants. SENCOs and volunteers. Heads and Deputies. Kitchen, lunch and medical staff in our schools. People who, although only human, keep our collective faith that things - even though they might be a bit shit right now - can, indeed, only get better. Because they are collectively preparing and equipping our children for the big, bad world. They teach them everything from reading and writing to zipping up their own coats. A lot of parents may say “my child could recite their Pure Sounds from the womb, and they zipped up MY fly as I gave birth to them(!)” but, and be honest, you cannot put your hand on your heart and say “a teacher has never taught my child something valuable” if you have a child in the education system. They recite the boring bullshit hourly that we call the alphabet. They sing songs to reinforce the days of the week to your child. They painstakingly sit with your child and question them on seasons, plants, spellings, times tables, the history of 1666 - and why this changed our modern outlook on basic safety - the reason for using speech marks in stories, the idea of socialising and friendship, how to count in tens, why we need to be kind and considerate, animal facts and respecting religions, creeds and colours. They remember that your child has trouble with telling time, and randomly questions them on it - nudging them towards saying “quarter past” instead of “the big hand is on the three”. They recall a child that mixes up “d” and “b”. They spend time with that child when a spelling test calls for them to write words with those letters, urging them to remember the correct way around of the lines. They know which children are easily distracted, and they purposely call upon them to answer questions, and relate it to stories they’ve told of their hobbies and interests. They know the child that comes in hungry every day, and make sure to pass this information to the kitchen staff so they get the larger portion of cheese flan. They know the child whose mum has just had another baby, and makes sure that they have five minutes before the lesson starts to just... have a breather. They know every single one of those 30 children inside and out. They know their friendship groups. They know what they want to be when they grow up, even before the child does. They know their strengths - and they push them on it. They know their weaknesses - they coach them on it. They do all of this - and so much more - in just 6 hours every day. Be honest, that is more than you, a parent, can spend with them some days. They make or break our children... and in my experience so far, that has always been “make”.
My children don’t go to a posh school. They don’t stand like robots, reciting the alphabet and singing the National Anthem. They go to a school that was, in recent years, in “Special Measures”. But that is used in the past tense. The school has reinvented itself. Every single teacher and member of staff in that school works their fingers to the bone for every child there, and with no expectation of anything in return. They bring our children up, preparing them for the outside world. They resolve arguments and tie laces simultaneously. They teach values and basic maths within the same hour. They listen to what your child got up to this past weekend, and recall it later to link a new topic to their interest. They wipe noses, knees and tears. They stand in the cold whilst your child plays on the yard. They watch their cup of coffee - in a specially lidded cup, for your child’s safety - go cold, because their break lasts all of 45 seconds, and they chose to use that time to console your child that was crying over the most inane of friendship problems.
The long and short of it is this. I saw these people - these Super Humans - and I was humbled. I wanted to do what I could to help. I didn’t have much to offer them except my time, and my time was well spent. I volunteered for a year, just over. I listened to a few children read, reinforcing the knowledge that had already been instilled in them by their teachers. It was nothing for me, just an hour a week. But the look on the teachers faces when they looked into my eyes and said “thank you” was enough to convince me that, yes, the education system is so important. They care about my child’s future. So should I.
I enrolled on a Teaching Assistants course in September last year. I didn’t have the confidence to become a full teacher. I couldn’t hold the responsibility of the futures of 30 children in my hands. Not yet. But I was ready to help.
I passed with flying colours, taking on subsequent courses in Special Educational Needs Support. I love it. I wipe noses. I reinforce which side the line goes on the “b” and the “d”. I resolve conflicts about “he said I’m bad at Minecraft, but he’s bad at Fortnite!”. I tie laces, and show them how to try for themselves next time. I photocopy worksheets. I take the child with concentration issues to one side and help them focus on their work. I let the teachers - our heroes - breathe out. I make jokes that “I can deal with 30 kids. I can’t deal with adults.” If you’ve read my previous blog posts you know how true this is. I literally can’t talk to adults. I threaten to have them sterilised when I do.
Coming soon: me being less mushy, me being more “I can’t believe I just bloody said that,”