Waking up little Suzie; A NOTE FROM MUM.
PRAISE be to schoolteachers everywhere! At last the school gates are open once more! Although pleasure does not come without its pain - as I have found out this week.
After several weeks of generally discarding the twenty-four hour workings of the clock, a certain somebody was NOT amused to be hauled out of bed "in the middle of the night". On the first day, I skirted around a domestic by reminding Miss Six that she had new 'Dr Martens' to wear. On that principle, breakfast was down her neck, teeth were shown the toothpaste, and clothes were on her back quicker than Tom Cruise got a divorce.
DAY TWO: The new-shoes-syndrome had worn off. When I was a kid it lasted for at least three weeks, so my mother had plenty of mileage out of that one. Thus my Kofi Annan type negotiation skills fell on deaf ears. Short of getting a shovel to get her out of bed, I threatened her with bed at 6pm - which had equal effect. It did however go downhill from there, especially when the television was restored to number one in my daughter's early morning affections. Next door must have thought that they'd been transported to Albert Square overnight, judging by the deafening bickering that would've vibrated the teeth of our goldfish - if it had any.
DAY THREE: The way I saw it, I could either argue with the child for the next ten years or beat her at her own game. So, having managed to get her out of bed, I told her that we would do it her way, and go to school when SHE was ready. Now this was like putting a bet on a five-legged horse, 'cos I wasn't 100 per cent sure if it held an advantage. To cut a very long story short, after much telly watching, she got to school at 9.10am. I frog-marched her into her classroom, and told her new teacher exactly why she was late. It worked. She died ten deaths and she was the colour of Michael Elphick's nose!
The following mornings passed without incident I'm pleased to say. However, the re-introduction of homework is another matter. The furthest her mind was stretched over the school holidays was reading the graffiti on the swings at the park. So I told her that if she didn't learn to read, then she'd never be able to learn to drive. As owning a pink convertible means more to her than life itself, the book was finished faster than a 'Soapstar' audition. Two-nil to me!