I’ve written before about Daughter Number Four’s rather punishing extracurricular schedule (for her parents). Then came the school show.
There had always been the annual event where the classes banged out a few Christmas hits, but this was new and the school wasn’t playing around. Every child who wanted to take part had to submit a videoed audition tape, some of whom then got a call back for a real-world run through in front of the show’s producers, who were, of course, also teachers.
A specially adapted script of Aladdin was written. A set was built. There were lights, costumes, a sound engineer and a videographer, a choir and musical instruments. Daughter Number Four landed the role of Widow Twankey (who has the best jokes), and so took on even further commitments outside school hours.
She was rather relaxed about the whole thing – all she was worried about was whether she’d be getting out of homework – which led us to feel the same way (about the show, not the homework). It was staged on two nights, and on the first day, you could feel the buzz around the school, even that morning. Family members got to attend, and it went swimmingly.
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Everyone was struck by just how much work had gone into it; something myself and Herself had been a little oblivious to. This was not just regarding Daughter Number Four’s efforts, but also those of the people who had put the whole production together – the teachers.
For weeks beforehand, we had been getting regular email updates, often on Saturdays or Sundays. A person, or people, were sending those out on their days off work. They weren’t getting paid for it, and they weren’t being forced to do it; putting on a show had been their idea.
Any parent, in their more honest, don’t-say-it-out-loud moments, might be able to admit that looking after kids can be a little boring. Yes, they are wonderful. Yes, they are the centre of your world. But a lot of childcare involves doing the same thing over and over again. Dressing. Feeding. Washing. Nagging. And while children might occasionally do or say something delightful, a lot of the time they tell you stuff you know already. Or they ask clearly bonkers counterfactual questions. But because you love them, you feign surprise and agreement at the first, and seriously attempt to answer the second.
Teachers, and anyone working in childcare, encounter this every day, five days a week, but without the evolutionary advantage of having a familial link to the children they are dealing with. It’s not an easy job and (I imagine) not everyone is psychologically equipped to do it. And that’s on top of dealing with outraged parents who don’t understand why their child’s singular brilliance hasn’t been recognised.
[ I wasn’t one of the victimised boys in my school. I was luckyOpens in new window ]
Yet all too often, what we hear about isn’t the crucially important job teachers do, but the time they get off from doing it. The long summer holidays are a perennial gotcha: a handy way of dismissing any complaints teachers might have, while eliding the issue of the centrality education has (or should have) in our society. And that criticism comes from people who are products of our education system.
Apart from providing a vivid set of memories for the children and their families, the show was also a fundraiser for the school itself – something that teachers all over the country routinely take part in. Sometimes, the money needed is to prevent the building they work in from falling down.
[ Seán Moncrieff: Daughter Number Four starts school in the teeth of a pandemicOpens in new window ]
It has become so common that it is almost normalised: in education, and in health, the people who work for those services also have to generate additional revenue to help keep those services running.
Does that justify the extended summer break? I don’t know. What I’d guess is that most people wouldn’t say no to the long holidays. But they might not be so keen on the job that goes with it.
