Open Writing

Having Howard around more is proving very important, as the OFSTED inspection draws ever closer and the pressure at school increases. It's been building for twelve months and it feels like we're trying to create a life-sized Angel of the North out of sand. Large chunks of every 'holiday' have been spent planning, preparing labels and resources, cleaning and painting. In an effort to prepare us, the headteacher has called in a series of 'experts' to observe and advise. They all criticise us for different things and give conflicting advice, resulting in a frenzy of activity, self-doubt and exhaustion.

One afternoon, I've waved off the last child and am busy tidying my classroom. I'm relieved that the expert of the day, Ms Q, hasn't had time to watch me teach. Almost as soon as this thought has drifted across my mind, she appears.

'Hello.' I push my face into what I hope is a welcoming smile.

Nothing.

'My planning is here.' I move to the table I use as a base and square up the file with my plans neatly displayed.

She makes no move in my direction, just walks a rapid circuit of the room and leaves.

I finish my fettling, pile work into my bag and make my way through the school to the front door. There is a small crowd of colleagues gathered round the headteacher. The expert has left the building, time to castigate ourselves with her comments. As I approach, one of the teachers turns in my direction. Her face looks drained. In hushed tones, she tells me the woman has reduced another teacher to tears.

The headteacher looks up at me. 'On her way out of the school, Ms Q said, "That Canadian teacher's planning is inappropriate." I assume she meant you.'

'And how would she know this?' I ask. I can feel fury bubbling in my guts. 'She whizzed round my classroom without a word to me or a glance at my planning and the children had already left.'

But the headteacher isn't interested. She's moving away busily planning what further changes we can make in the days before OFSTED arrive.

'Did she have any suggestions as to how "my planning" couldbe improved or in what way it was inappropriate?' But I am asking myself, the others have scurried away.

I can't imagine what benefit there could be for the children to have their teachers running round like rodents in a wheel creating nothing but smoke and tears. Each day seems to bring a new drama. No one is sleeping or smiling. Howard listens to my reports then tries to remind me that our school is just a little goldfish bowl in the ocean of life. James' cancer checks also help me to keep this whole process in some kind of perspective.

When the inspection finally arrives, I'm disappointed that it isn't a more constructive and positive experience. My headteacher, apparently, asked them to give me some space, given my circumstances, so many of the inspectors seem reluctant to speak to me. It's very kind of them all but it increases my feeling of being a victim by not having a voice in the proceedings.

It's very disconcerting to have someone watch you, making copious notes, then not provide you with any feedback. My lessons are all deemed to be fine but it would have been helpful to have the opportunity to discuss why I had been doing what I was doing and to be given some suggestions for ways in which I could improve.

I do have one funny moment during the week-long inspection. My music lesson seems to be going along so well that I'm almost able to forget the suited, silent man in the corner. The children listen carefully to guess which instruments are being played behind a screen and their concentration is palpable, as they try to repeat musical patterns created by other children. But the smile freezes on my face, when I suddenly realise I've come to the end of my planning and there are still five minutes until home time. My mind goes completely blank. I can't remember a single song to sing with the children. My eyes scan the room for inspiration and light on the inspector.

'You must see some wonderful music lessons on your travels round the country. I wonder if you have a favourite song you'd like to teach us?' A small voice in my head is screaming at me and questioning my sanity.

The inspector looks stunned for a moment then gathers his wits and smiles. He teaches us a silly version of 'Ten in a Bed' that I've never heard before, with funny actions, and the children love it. They respond with gusto and leave in giggles. Even the inspector looks as though he's enjoyed himself.

*

It reminds me of another fear-facing event that happened one morning a few years earlier. Before the children came in, a very sizeable mother, swollen with anger, blazed into my classroom screaming words and spittle in my face.

'My daughter is not to bring a library book home ever again! My toddler might wreck the book and I won't be able to pay for it.'

In a calm, quiet voice, I managed to say, 'That's not a problem at all. I understand your difficulty. Would it be all right if your little girl chooses a book with the other children and keeps it in her drawer at school? Perhaps you could share it with her in the mornings, when you bring her in?'

The response was instant and dramatic. It was as if I'd punctured her with a tiny pin; she deflated and was left almost speechless. She had obviously had to work herself up to such a pitch just to speak to a teacher. I couldn't help wondering what her previous experiences of school had been. When I complimented her on her unusual purple shoes, I had a friend for life and she even began to come into school to help, not long after that.

Teaching, especially young children, is so much more then the lessons you plan and the way you deliver them. Building partnerships with parents is a big part of the job. Is there such a thing as the perfect human parent? I doubt it. What would be right for one child, wouldn't work for another. As a teacher, I saw all sorts of parents.

Some of the most forlorn children are the ones whose mothers want to do everything for them. I once taught a child, nearly five years old, who mutely held out his coat, hat and mittens to me at the first playtime.

"What would you like, Luvvy?" I asked, gently.

"Coat" was the timid reply.

"What would you like me to do with your coat?" I coaxed. He didn't even know how to ask for help. When I suggested he try to put it on himself and I would help if he got stuck, he was mortified. Of course, he wasn't able to dress himself for PE either. Once he'd mastered these basic skills, and it took time, I had him demonstrate in the sharing assembly in front of the rest of the school and we all celebrated his achievement.

At the same time, I had to carefully help the mother to see that every time you do something for your child, your actions tell him/her that you don't think they're capable of doing it for themselves. The harder, but more loving, response is to patiently encourage and praise attempts at independence, allowing them to try a little bit more than even they think they can do. Sadly, I've known children starting school who didn't know how to use a knife and fork, a toilet or even one child who could barely walk, having been carried everywhere. These children stand out from their peers and often then have trouble making friends.