Last Minute Dot Bake

Good evening dear reader. You will notice that once again, I am writing to you from the depths of the night. Now, you may think this is something to do wih darling child not going to sleep. Or darling husband wanting attention. But no... alas not. Husband has taken himself off to the computer room to transfer a million tiny files we have unashamedly created due to taking a million picures, videos and general memories of boy. And boy himself took himself off to bed at 8pm with no tears  and no arguments. (Busy day playing with cousins has tuckered that one out no end. Happy days!)

Oh no.. I've been baking dear reader. No pleasant socialities for me. No long, deep conversations with my man, putting the world to rights. Nope - like some frantic, bastardised Lucille ball - I have been concocting all manner of delicious item for our bake sale tomorrow.

Now, don't get me wrong dear reader. I love to bake. And said bake sale is for Macmillan Coffee morning tomorrow at work and thus is a cause I hold dear to my heart. There's not a person I know that hasn't seen the ugly face of cancer rear it's despicable and devastating head in their direction. Some of the people I love most dearly are even now being directly impacted by this terrible, violating disease and I hate the toll it is taking on them. So I bake. And I donate monthly. And I'll donate more tomorrow. And I do what I can to help the people I love. And I hope.

I know that the coffee morning is an annual event that seems to be reasonably nationwide these days. They are going on all around us. If you spot on near you. Pop in a buy a cake. It may taste kak, or be shop bought; it may be some delightful Delia Smith nonsense that even Mary Berry wouldn't shake a stick at and that would be lovely but that's not the point...

We all have a responsibility to do our very best to fight against the evil in the world. That starts with cake for cancer.. I reckon bumping off Trump would be a good next step... 

Tra la la la la!

"Who's afraid of the big, bad wolf
The big bad wolf
The big bad wolf
Who's afraid of the big bad wolf
Tra la la la la!"

Rather apt tune buzzing round my head today. After an unfortunate brush with the media my school has had recently, OFSTED swooped down on us after circling our exposure. And - to be honest - who can blame them? I love my school but I know it has a bit of a shady history..

Long before my time, the school had a bit of a bad rep. All sorts of unsavoury shenanigans occurred and our boys were often named. Since a particularly low point in the school history, a lot has been done to turn the attitudes of the boys around and in our most recent inspection we were awarded a 1 (outstanding in old money) for our behaviour/attitude for learning. That's a big achievement. To get almost a thousand teenagers on side for not 1 but 2 whole days. Their parents should be proud!

Unfortunately, you'd never know this was the case if you read our local media. I don't know why but it seems  they just have an unsatiable urging to tie us back to that old reputation. Not caring to convey the massive changes we've been through or how far we've come... but happy to (often falsely!) Spout left, right and centre on "misdemeanours" and mischief! I know I shouldn't feel personally affected by their thoughtless words but that's my reputation they choose to tarnish with their brush when they paint us all as vandals and thugs.

As it stands, I know I cannot discuss any outcomes that we may have been given just now. But rest assured. I will sleep long and deep tonight... I poke my tongue out at the paper that shan't be named and urge you, if you had any doubt, to pop in and see for yourself the care and hard work my working family has. Kids and adults alike. Not a few lines of type but real, unfaltering love and care for one another... x

Thank you

Hi all,

Just a quick one from me tonight. I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who has read my little blog. I didn't start writing again to gain notoriety (that said, I don't think I'm that high on the Blogasphere's Ones to Watch list!)  or to drawl on about a bunch of stuff that no one is really interested in. I write for myself. As a teacher it is so hard to find things that are easy but fulfilling to do. I'd love to say I read reams of books, like I know some of my more noble colleagues do - but that would be a lie. I spout all this lovely advice to my students on the value of reading and have all these wonderful books lining my shelves - but can I really say I've read.. even half... of them. Sadly, no. I will one day! I think I am like an Egyptian, I will save all my books up and build myself a little book pyramid and when I die, they will go with me to the next life; where I shall have much more time to sit and read them because I'll be dead. Ahhh... Morbid bliss.

The difference with writing is that everything you read here is already going on inside my head. Instead of me having to interpret what was going on inside someone else's head, I can just open up and let you in. Some people have said that the inside of my head must look very funny considering some of the outpourings they have read so far - maybe it is? Unfortunately for me, it's the only head I know - so I just have to get on with it I guess.

I hear you again gentle reader: "what's all this got to do with thanking us. I thought we were here to be loved and admired for the silent beauty that we are!"

And you are. Without your support, some known and others not, I wouldn't choose to continue to write. You are the driving force behind these witterings you see. So you can't blame me. You brought it on yourself... Besides, after the few rather embarrassingly lovely comments that I have been given, I am a little scared to stop and let you all down...

Today an Assistant Head job opened up in my school. I thought of applying just for the craic of it. Sitting in the interview where you have to prove amazing results and saying "Well if you just ignore those ones, then I'm golden aren't I?"

..yes, maybe one to leave in my head...

Survivor

Day 2 of lone Mama and I must admit I'm glad to have my husband back. (As I type these words he tells me.. "You should write about me more, I'm awesome"! Soon my love, I'm sure I'll discuss you at great length on a day you annoy me.. be careful what you wish for! X)

Back to today. After a rather impressive bit of backwards driving, upon discovering I could not escape our parking area via our normal route - unless of course I was willing to take off the front of some else's car (I wanted to: Oh yes! But alas, my yellow mini is just too beautiful to waste on destroying some spotty teenagers red Nissan.) I managed to get on the road to in-laws even later than yesterday.

On top of this, boy had been a pickle for feeding (I fear more teeth are on the horizon!) And so knew I didn't want to be late as he'd soon be calling for food! Are all boys that fussy about boobs?.. Actually, don't answer that.

Thankfully, M-I-L was waiting cheerily to take boy from my flinging arms the moment I arrived and I still managed to scrape into work on time! God bless grandparents. A whirlwind of lessons later and I found myself leading the first rehearsal of our latest school play.

So, we're doing the Merchant of Venice, right? Catch is - we've gone a bit Fawlty Towers here - we're not mentioning the Jews. I know, I know reader and drama aficionados alike: How can you possibly not mention the Jews in a play like MoV?! Well, as it turns out, quite easily. Which in itself makes me a little uncomfortable (It felt too easy to rip out all mention of an entire race considering much of the play depends on its presence in the plot!)

"So what are you doing instead?" I hear you call! Now there is the ingenious part! In modernising the setting. Bringing Portia's challenge and Antonio's blight into the contemporary,  we can eradicate Shylock's segregation from society due to race. Instead, he is cast aside as the miserable old miser; out of touch with the young carefree hipsters of the world.

See, what with my newly emblazoned kindness to self and others policy I just couldn't stand the idea of a play which only focuses on some 400 year old stereotype of a race as justification for portraying them as cruel and deserving of their fate. I had to make that change for my own sanity (and that of SLT of course.. could you imagine the meeting to discuss what we're doing...

"So there's this Jew right."
"Right..."
"And he's completely slagged off by everyone because he's a Jew"
"Riiight..."
"And he lends his enemy a load of cash so he can entrap and murder him"
"Go on..."
"And is then told that because he's being an unreasonable Jew, he must convert to Christianity, give all his money to the daughter that betrayed him for another Christian and deal with it or die..."
"... you know we're a Catholic school right.")

So yeah - it got edited slightly. Same old story.. slightly different angle. We'll see how it pans out! 

Leader of the Pack (Vroom Vroom!)

I know, avid reader; you have been waiting with baited breath to see how/if I survived night one on my own. I can hear from here the feminists among you are screaming at your screens, "Stop acting like you can't do it - you're giving us a bad rep!" and you're probably right that I am but I really was worried that I wouldn't be able to go it alone.

However - I have conquered! 9:04pm and I am sat - with a alcoholic beverage (of your choice as you hear my voice inside your head) swirling around a glass - curled up in bed. Dozy, contented, smug. After what was clearly an exhausting day with Granny and Grumpa; a huge dinner and the most frivolous bath I've ever seen (Pretty sure I had to save him from attempting to drown himself on at least 4 occasions!) My beautiful boy was drifting in and out of sleep. Laid down (awake!) turned on all the various nightlights, singing/wave/uterus machines that he enjoys, told him I love him and pushed the door to. Not. A. Sound.

Bloody Miracle. 

Of course, I still have to get through another night (and another early rise!) but for now. I am wallowing in my Mama-hen-ly smugness. No, I didn't do the washing up. No, I didn't mark those 12 books I brought home even though I promised myself this year I wouldn't bring any work home. No, I didn't unload the dryer. No, I don't care. I get to have an evening to myself where I'm not tired. I mean I am, of course, completely exhausted what with full time teaching, recovering from illness and being a generally completely under-slept new mother. But that's not real tiredness - that just the perpetual tiredness that we all seem to endure! 

On those lines, the other day I saw another staff member run, breathless, into the staff room. Grab a cup and down a glass of water. I asked him if he had a bottle. He shook his head as he downed another. I have found myself to be the keeper of the stash of water our school hides in case a pipe bursts or we have parents visit (heaven forbid they drink tap water!) and so saw an open pack in one of my cupboards. I took a bottle up to him and, due to his valiant teaching efforts with what could only be described as a particularly testing group of young people on a final lesson of a Friday, he never noticed my leaving it on his desk. It wasn't until I emailed him later asking if he had drunk said water that he even realised it was me. The email in return was simple:

"My Guardian Angel."

But here's the thing... that's not how it should be. As I said, we all seem to live in this perpetual tired haze. Rushing and running from class to meeting, meeting to department, department to training. We forget to look after ourselves. How can we be expected to look after others if we cannot look after ourselves? I didn't give him the water to brag, to be an angel, to gain some sort of personal superiority complex. I didn't even know I was going to tell you all until I was suddenly writing it. I gave it because I care about him. He works hard, he cares about us and he cares about the kids. It made me feel good - of course - but it made me feel good because I knew he wasn't looking after himself and I could do something tiny to remind him he should be... Be an angel for someone - it feels awesome and it takes next to nothing. 

Most of the time people need the tiniest of things to finish them off. A kid smirking at them when they're trying to help; a bad lesson review; a split cup of coffee. They blow up. At the time it feels completely justified, then immediately completely stupid. Ultimately, you even out but your self respect goes down a little for a while. The thing is, that tiny thing. We forget that it's just the last thing. It's not the whole thing. There's so much stuff that we bury under the surface of happy families, confident employees, loyal friends that we don't confront the things that stop us from looking after ourselves. That's why we need each other... No one can do it alone. Who ever you are, what ever it is. 

I want to be an angel to more people. It's contagious. 

Lone Wolf

So today, for what I think is the first time, my husband is away training for a few nights and I am on. my. own.

Now I have kept my beautiful son alive for 9 months so you'd think I'd be dab-hand at the idea of hubby leaving me to it. After all, he went off to work every day while I was on maternity leave and besides a few very minor questionable decisions, child has been broadly-speaking very well taken care of. So why do I feel nervous today?

It would seem going back to work, with all the stresses of a real timetable and the prayers/voodoo rituals/wishful thinking I'm currently reciting to encourage our darling boy to remain asleep and in his crib all night have got me panicking about the few short days ahead.

Deep down I know everything will be absolutely fine. I have a fantastically supportive network of family and friends around me, many of whom I know would drop everything in an instant if I really needed their help, and yet.. the idea that impending doom is about to occur is settling in.

(Big shout out right now to all single parents out there... I am bricking it at the idea of 2 days alone - you guys are heroes! How you bathe baffles me - I am fully prepared to rely on dry shampoo and air freshener if necessary!)

My mum was a single mum for a long time and has worked her butt off my whole life to make sure none of us had to worry about food, clothing and the odd treat. She is my inspiration in life in so many ways and I know I don't tell her enough. She reminded me the other day, when I was complaining about my life, of something she has often told me. "Do something that makes you happy. I know you'll be successful in anything you do so focus on doing something that you want to do." I love her for that unbreaking trust in me to make the right decisions for my life. I trust her absolutely to do the same and hope I can provide the same support for her now I am grown as she has done for me my whole life.

It reminded me that I decided I wanted to enter teaching when I was about 12 - I know; most kids at 12 want to be Spiderman or an Astronaut or something but I wanted to help people and figured I would be good at teaching. Deep down, that 12 year old is still in there. Unfortunately, in recent years, that naive, wide-eyed lover of learning has been buried beneath bureaucracy, paperwork and data. Data - eurgh - I mean... I know you have to measure achievement at some point, some how. But much of my subject goes on feeling, on talent, on the moment, not on the numbers. But maybe more on that another time. For now, I pledge to let that 12 year old find a path to the surface. By looking after myself so I can look after others, help others and find that love and drive to succeed once again.
If you need me, I'll be daydreaming.

Year new. New rules

So, I went in and faced the music. I knew it wasn't going to be great, all singing, all dancing A*s across the board. I had warned the powers that be that in the end, my hopes weren't high. And yet, I secretly wished (and put my all in to achieve!) The very best I could in terms of grades.

It wasn't enough.

I had come back to a mess. My results were terrible. My school hadn't offered drama at GCSE so I had no way to redeem myself. And I was coming back to exactly he same situation in terms of knowledge base for drama that I had when I first started.

My biggest fears were that it would end up being the same.

 It all felt too familiar. Like some sort of horrific groundhog day thats on a 5 year cycle. I couldn't let that happen again.

I cried. A lot. It was tough to hear that your best isn't good enough. I barely made it through the exam analysis meeting I was supposed to have. I just couldn't hold myself together. There I was; new mother, just returned after 9 months out, all the curriculum for GCSE had changed, the grading had changed, the kids I knew had left. I was out of my depth. I was told it didn't matter that my opinion was that throughout the process of the GCSE,  the kids had improved - some had gone up by 4 GCSE grades between exams done in July 2015 and November 2015 - all that mattered was what OFSTED were going to think when they saw I had failed.

I didn't just want to quit. I wanted the group to swallow me up and never be seen again.

But life doesn't work that way and I resolved to make changes. I scrapped everything we had used up until that point. All our SOWS.  All the curriculum maps. All the assessment and their criteria. It all had to go.

I'm starting again...