Page190 - Week 01 - Thursday, 3 December 2020
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a cohort of survivors, brave warriors, women and men, battle weary, worn after a long and taxing year. They have been in trenches made even more treacherous by something called online learning.
I am talking about the class of 2020. In this case, I am not referring to the students, although I salute our tough young scholars, all 4,858 of them, and wish them well in their future endeavours. I am honouring the mums and dads, the carers and partners, who have swotted and sweated through 2020 with their year 12 cherubs. I speak from experience because I am one of them. All I can say is: thank goodness it is over.
On many occasions over the last 12 months I have looked at my gorgeous daughter and thought, “We could not be more different.” I think back to my year 12 experience at Copland college. I did everything I could to get enough points to leave school early. I was the kid in the library doing my homework at lunchtime to get it out of the way and hand it in early, way before it was due.
This has not been the case in our household this year. Far from it, in fact. Of course, a lesson that parents and carers must learn is that our kids are different from us. They will do it their way and they will forge their own paths. Often, as parents and carers, we feel completely at sea in terms of parenting and how to connect and get through to our kids. We always struggle with the best way to help and support them. That is all we want to do.
My daughter was one of the many year 12 students who struggled with online learning when our schools shut their doors. For a lot of the time she did not work. I tried to encourage her to set up a comfortable, clean study area and whipped up snacks and treats to keep her going—whatever might work. To use the jargon, I did my best to reach out to my daughter. But she, like many other teenagers, prefers not to talk about school. Earlier today, when I mentioned that I would speak about this in the Assembly, she said, “Mum, there were so many times we did not speak.” Yes.
I really do not know how that was for her. But gee it is tough on a mother. My daughter is independent and does not like receiving help. Like many teenagers, she absolutely hated me nagging her and checking up on her. There were the constant questions from Mum: “Have you done this? Have you handed this in? Did you go to class today? What have you got on at the moment?” There was a lot of tension at home. It was pretty stressful. I do not think that it was any different in my home in Ngunnawal than in many homes across my electorate of Yerrabi and the rest of Canberra.
I remember one occasion when she did reach out and ask for help with a project. Her timing could not have been worse. It was late at night—close to midnight, I think. I was just on the verge of entering delicious deep slumber when my precious girl lobbed into my room, laptop in hand, bright as a button. “Are you awake?” “What’s wrong?” I said. “You have to help me,” came the pressing response. It was a project due the next morning that could not wait.
No parent or carer would be surprised to hear that I sat up in bed, woke myself up as best I could, and tag-teamed with my daughter to get the assignment done. I typed,
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