New country, new school, new playground

A long way from home - 29 Jun 16

I am a confident and capable woman, so why am I skulking around the edges of the playground, pretending to be engrossed in a message on my phone and generally feeling like a socially inept 8 year old?

The answer: because I am in a new playground, in a new country on the other side of the world.

For more than 6 years I walked up the same school drive with mums (and dads) who I’d known since my oldest child was in nursery. We had seen each other through subsequent pregnancies, the miracle of those turning into tiny, tiny babies, and who, in time-warping fashion, have now been at school for a few years.

During the walk up to school in the morning there were frequent tales of woe delivered through gritted teeth about what utter shits the children had been that morning.

Sympathetic nods would greet my off-load. “We do this every morning, EVERY BLOODY MORNING, all week. How hard can it be to get three children out of the door with clean teeth, shoes on and carrying a packed lunch?” Mid rant I glance down. Teeth cleaning definitely took place; there’s a splodge of toothpaste (not necessarily mine) on my top. It looks like a seagull had a gut-clearing poo on me. It doesn’t matter. Somehow I don’t need to explain to these familiar faces.

Even our house-bound neighbour didn’t miss out on our morning fun as I was usually on my yelliest yell by the time I started up the engine, only after 5 attempts to actually all leave the house, and stay in the car. Sharing this with mums in the playground was cathartic. Frustration fizzled and was replaced with a smile, and we were able to wave our little ones into class with a cuddle and sincere “I love you”. That walk up the school drive with like-minded souls provided the perfect few minutes to realign the parenting planets.

And now newly in Australia? When a mum in the playground asks me how things are going I can’t reply with a candid, “Bloody awful. How’s your morning been?” No, I smile and make some remark about the weather. I consider myself an open book and yet find it really hard to have a frank discussion with these new playground mums. They don’t know me, they don’t know my children. There is no shared history.

The children had been at school in Australia for a week, enough time for me to be on nodding acquaintance with a few mums in the playground, when we had a slightly drizzly and overcast morning. I couldn’t deliver my youngest to class without at least five Aussie mums calling to me, “You must feel at home with this rain.”

The first time I responded with good humour. The fifth time I fixed a smile on my face and dredged up some statistics to the bafflement of mum number five.

“Actually, we come from the East of England where the annual rainfall is a third less than here.”

Mum number five blinked slowly and attempted a sympathetic Lady Di head-on-the-side smile. “Really?” which clearly transported her assessment of me: poor woman, jet lagged/ homesick/ delusional, and mental note not to suggest any playdates.

I pressed on with the results of my Google search from some months previous. “Yes, and what’s more, the annual rainfall here of 860mm is spread across 90 days and my 550mm,” I continued having taken ownership of the rainfall in the East of England, “falls on only slightly more days – 100 days per year.” It is important to clarify this; the assumption being the rainfall in England is spread thinly and evenly throughout 364 days.

Playground rule # 1: when talking about the Australian weather, you must not whinge.

In the summer it can be 30C at the school drop off and heading for 40C by lunchtime. On one memorably stinking hot day the children and I left the sanctuary of the air-conditioned car, and it was truly like opening the oven door to check on the roast. We walked through an unchanging wall of heat while I tried to remember if I had put sun cream on all the children, or had I left the oldest to do her own while I was cleaning the teeth of the youngest and directing the middle child? “Put your shoes on please.” Blank look. “Your shoes. Where are they?” Middle child’s mouth gaped open and his eyes wandered around the room in our morning ritual of reuniting child and shoes.

We made it to the air-conditioning of the classroom. Youngest child’s breath was fresh, middle child was indeed wearing shoes and oldest child’s peaches and cream would survive another day. There was friendly chit-chat about the weather. A mum of Amazonian proportions flashed her teeth at me. “Hot enough for you today?” she enquired.

I had been here before and learnt the socially acceptable response. Always be in awe of the Australian weather. NEVER WHINGE.

“Oh it’s pretty hot,” I said with a big smile (no sighing allowed). “What’s the hottest it gets in the summer?” I asked with a look of expectant interest. Amazonian mum pulled herself up to her full 6 feet and pushed back her shoulders. “Much hotter. Last year it got to 44.5C.” She tried to sound dismissive, but I had the impression that congratulations were in order. I looked suitably awed and prepared myself for running the gauntlet of heat and flies back to the air-conditioning of the car.

Later in the year I made the social gaff of complaining about the cold. A casual “How was your weekend?” from a friendly mum resulted in us trading weather insults over the heads of our children.

My husband’s work place had arranged a Christmas party at a local playground for the children of employees. The sun was shining as we left our house and there was a strong sea breeze. Before we even set eyes on Father Christmas oldest child was covered in goose bumps. Middle child and youngest child were distracted from the bitingly cold wind by the elves throwing sweets at them. Oldest child and I were not into the Christmas spirit, in any climate, and volunteered to go home for more clothes. I recounted this to the friendly mum in the playground and told her how pleased I was to have packed some winter attire. The word ‘cashmere’ was hardly out of my mouth when she jumped in with an account of her 4 months in England, gesturing giant quotations marks around the word ‘summer’ and delighted in telling me that it rained nearly every day.

“Actually, we come from the East of England…” Bemused she tilted her head and nodded kindly.

It is now the middle of winter and my playground chats will remain on safer topics. No recounting tales to sympathetic ears of my shouty, sweary exit from the house. No cathartic off-load up the school drive. No weather talk.

Shit, it’s cold today.

A long way from home

She was plucked from the bosom of Mother England and sentenced to 10 years of hard core whingeing in the land of Kylie and The Wiggles. Her crime? To fall in love with an Australian who gallantly shivered his way through 11 English winters (and a few summers) and who eventually persuaded her to pack up their three children and move to Oz. She is a long way from home.

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