THE PRIVATE SCHOOL DILEMMA CONTINUES...

The other day Miss Q and I were hanging out with some of my oldest friends. Not that they’re old. They’re my age. We’re young. I mean that I’ve known them for a long time. Since high school. We’ve been friends for over twenty years.

Friendships that long mean all the barriers are down. Nobody wears makeup, honesty and truth – however they present – are the basis for discussion and that discussion is open to anything – from the sex-education class we had from the crazy art teacher who made us put a condom on a banana, to our daily need for our friend the carbohydrate, why we didn’t get tickets to see Lady Gaga and where to send our kids to school.

One of these friends (the mother of three fabulous humans) has already put her girls down for an exclusive private school that will set her and her partner back a cool $25 000 per year. Per child.

And that doesn’t include uniform, hockey gear, the harp, still-portrait lessons or anything else their girls decide to do.

‘That’s $75 000 we’re going to be paying each year. And that’s after tax,’ she says to me nonchalantly.

Is it? I wouldn’t know. I’ve never earned $75 000 a year.

So the concept of spending more than I’ve ever earned on Miss Q’s education is a little out of my realm of comprehension.

Most people’s salaries are like monopoly money to me. It just doesn’t seem real.

‘Are they seriously getting paid that much money?’ I question our other friend.

‘Nome, you have no concept of how much money there is out there. Some people, merchant bankers for example, may have bonuses of over a million dollars.’

Over a million dollars?

What does that mean? It’s ridiculous. How can you need that much money?

Oh wait, I know. 

Because if you have a prayer of owning your own house in Sydney and you want that house to be in a desirable area where nobody sends their kids to a public school because they want them mixing with the Hugo’s and Bella’s of the world, so the public school gets all the riff-raff and you want better for your child, you need that million dollars.

And then some.

What on earth are we going to do with Miss Q? 

Then again, she's only eight months old.

Perhaps by the time she's twelve I'll be a bestselling novelist and singing up a storm.

That ought to get me seventy-five-grand a year oughtn't it?

Or...we could improve the state of our public schools so that they are acceptable to all socioeconomic sectors, thereby producing an accurate portrayal of the world our kids are going to mix in once they're out of school anyway.

I know, I know, tell her she's dreaming.

SYDNEY'S PRIVATE SCHOOLS...WHERE TO SEND MISS Q???

‘Are we sending Q to a private school?’ Gregory asks me the other day.

‘Not unless you’ve got a spare $20 000 a year.’

‘Wow. That’s a lot of money.’

‘Yes it is.’

‘Should we start saving then? Is that what we should do?’

‘No. We should trust in the government’s ability to educate our child and send her to the local public school.’

But just out of curiosity, I investigated a couple of private schools to see what the going rate of teaching my kid reed and rite was.

Kambala suggested you make an appointment to tour the school and fill out a form that digs far into your personal life to expose any undesirable qualities that would deem your child unsuitable for a place within their hallowed halls.

SCEGGS Darlinghurst had an online payment form but didn’t say how much you had to give ‘em. I guess if you have to ask you can’t afford it right?

Same deal Wenona, but I’m not that serious about researching something I’ve got no intention of following through on, as to bother filling out their online forms or contacting the registrar or the bursar.

Although I do love those words.

Bursar.

It has such a ring to it don’t you think?

Kincoppal were the only ones brave enough to post their fees. 

$13 860 just for kindergarten. 

I’d want Miss Q to be reading Homer by the end of the year for that amount.

Unfortunately for Q, our funds just don’t extend to such expenditure, so we’ve begun a saving policy that involves anyone we know, but most prominently features her father.

It’s called The Blue Q Jar.

The jar for collecting the fines you pay every time you drop a swear word in front of Miss Q.

Her father is a chef. Swearing is how those tattooed, ex-smoking, late night workers converse.

The F-bomb is his favourite adjective.

Actually he also manages to make it a noun, an adverb, a preposition and a conjunction too.

So I implemented the policy of zero tolerance.

$1 for average swear words and blasphemy

$2 for the F-bomb

Automatic $10 for the C-word, which would also probably get you a whack from me. I hate that word.

You can’t make a deposit for the evening and then just go for it.

There are no I.O.U’s.

And it still counts even if you don’t think she’s listening.

It’s turning out to be a rather profitable scheme.

At this rate Q will be going to the finest and most elite school in the nation.

OUTLIERS BY MALCOLM GLADWELL AND WHY MY CHILD WILL NEVER BE BILL GATES

Has anyone read Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell? Well if you’re pregnant or already a parent, don’t. It’s too late. There’s not much you can do about the birth date of your child now, which could possibly mean they will be on the younger end of the cut off date for sporting teams, which means their physical prowess is less than their peers, which means they don’t get picked for the best teams, which means they don’t get the better coaching and play more games, which means they’ll probably never be as good as the older kids which means they will never represent the nation at ping pong.

That’s in one of the first chapters. If you keep reading after that disheartening news, you discover that unless your child (or you for that matter) is willing to spend 10 000 hours practicing something, they’ll probably never be the best at it.

Ten thousand hours.

That’s a lot.

About the only thing Miss Q practices for any length of time right now is whinging. If you figure she does that for approximately 2 hours a day, by the time she is 13 years and 6 months old she will have completed the requisite 10 000 hours and be a professional whinger. 

I can hardly wait.

Mr. Gladwell also bangs on a lot about circumstance, situation and chance, all of which can only be slightly manipulated by moi, Miss Q’s doting mother. 

Apparently Bill Gates went to a hoity-toity private school somewhere in Seattle where the mother’s club fundraised for a computer room and he ended up having access to one of the first ever computer mainframe thingoh’s which gave him a seriously unfair advantage over oh, say, the rest of world. To be fair, he was also obviously a bit of a geek and did manage to complete the 10 000 hours of practice. I could have spent 10 000 hours in a computer room and it wouldn’t have made a lick of difference. I would have counted the weaves in the carpet before I’d discovered whatever it is Mr. Gates did.

Potentially there are thousands of Bill Gates walking around the world, but not all these Bill Gates had the same accidental circumstance as he, which meant they never became Bill Gates and stayed Jo Blow, Fred Nurk…or Little Miss Q. I mean, she could grow up next to a tennis court, but if she’s into tiddlywinks it’s not going to help her finally become the one person to smash those massive Williams sisters is it.

Outliers also talks about cultural differences and how they affect the person you become. Again, what am I meant to do about that? Squire her around the world and somehow get her to soak up only the best parts of certain cultures - the work ethic of the chinese, the manners of the Japanese, the ballsyness of the Yanks.

So having read Outliers at my brother’s request that I do so before I totally destroy my daughter’s life, I have concluded the following:

·               She won’t be Bill Gates because there already is one

·               I can’t do much about the fact that she’s a November baby because she’s already born

·               If she wants to practice something for 10 000 hours I’m right behind her. Unless it’s archery, (that is seriously boring as a spectator) lawn bowls (ditto on the boring factor) and of course, whinging.

·               I will do my best to accidentally increase her chances of success but probably not by sending her to a hoity-toity private school because we won’t be able to afford it. But I’m more than happy to start a mother’s club at the local public school and fundraise for new facilities. I’ve always fancied myself as a bit of a baker.

But I tell you what I have got in limitless supply. A love for my child that surpasses all comprehension. A longing for her to be safe, content, happy and most of all kind. (Buggar the ten thousand hours, if she’s not a nice person I don’t care how many maths exams she can pass). A willingness to put in the hard yards to help her grow and flourish in whatever direction that may be. And no desire to see her live out any of the regrets I have about my own life. And you wanna know why? Because I don’t have any.

I’m a November baby too. I doubt I’ve done 10 000 hours of anything other than laugh. I went to a public school, my parents didn’t even read Outliers and I reckon my brothers and I have turned out just fine.