I wouldn’t be a teacher for all the tea in China. And I drink a lot of tea.
Not because of the kids, but the parents. I think it must be a tough gig, and I don’t care how long the holidays are.
The current crop of parents (I’m one) is more engaged with their kids than previous generations, and that’s great. We want to know who our kids’ mates are, what their mates’ families are like. And we want to know everything about what’s happening at school. Above all, we want our kids to be happy. But is that happiness coming at the expense of teachers’ satisfaction? Does it matter? Of course it does. Because teachers are important and if there’s no joy in the job, they’ll leave. I think we need to back off a bit – take a leaf out of our parents’ book.
When I was at primary school, mum knew my teacher’s name (but rarely her first name) and possibly where my classroom was. That was about it.
Teachers hit me reasonably regularly. Sister Carmel* would use a plastic gladioli (snatched from a vase at the feet of a statue of Our Lady) to whip girls on the backs of the legs. I never told my parents, because they’d be furious. Not with Sister Carmel, but with me. In those days, parents sided with the teacher.