Clutching a tissue in his hand...

[Caylie Jeffery]

I came to pick you up from school today and found you huddled in a corner, red-eyed, with a ragged tissue between your little fingers. My joy at seeing you after a day apart evaporated into concern and empathy at your obvious plight. A thousand thoughts raced through my mind at what might have happened to make you like this.

Your teacher looked harassed and worried, as she saw the look in my eyes, the questions unable to be answered because of the busyness in the room. I cradled you in my lap, and asked you what had happened. Red rimmed, beseeching eyes wouldn't tell me, but you asked if I could take you home as soon as possible. No play in the park after school with your friends, no happy little boy excited to break out of class. You clung to me like someone drowning. You wanted me to carry you all the way home, like a newborn child.

Silence in the room at last, your teacher apologising to me with her eyes as she explained that you had been the child to do the wrong thing at the wrong time. The class had been told that the next person who spoke out of turn would miss out on the afternoon's activity with their buddy. Something you looked forward to all week. The excitement of being with your buddy and your propensity for being the class clown, made your little mouth run faster than your brain... You were the one who spoke out of turn.

Your teacher had to act. She had drawn a line in the sand and you had neatly stepped over it. As a result, you had to do the walk of shame across a room filled with your peers and their buddies. Your own buddy reached out for you with his heart. He was the first one to tell me that something was wrong when I got to school. He suffered with you.

You'll never know how hard it was for your teacher to punish you like that. It had to be done, and one day you'll understand why. She mouthed how sorry she was as I carried you out of the room, and I frowned at her, shook my head and reassured her with my eyes. She'd done the right thing, and the benefits would come. Not only you, but the other small people in your class now know that there are boundaries. That teachers are there to teach, children are there to learn and class is not about mucking around.

When we got home, your little sister stood close by with her hand on your arm. We sat quietly, relieved to be home, away from the many eyes who had seen your shame, your hurt, your embarrassment.

I wondered what to do, what to say. The time had passed for further recriminations- the job had been done. My role was to nurture, to anoint and to heal. The scar would stay, forever I hoped. A reminder that when limits are set, they should be heeded. They were there for a reason, for safety, for discipline, for learning.

I started to talk about a memory of a time 30 years ago. Year 8 camp, to be exact, with 399 other 12-year-old children, all sitting in the hall after lunch, listening to our Principal giving his daily sermon. He was angry that day, because there'd been a lot of children misbehaving at camp, and he'd had enough. He had said quite plainly that the next person to make him mad would be sent home from camp on the next bus.

If I'd known that person was going to be me, I would never have pointed to another child who'd fallen asleep. I would never have mouthed to her friend, 'Wake her up, before the Principal sees her.' It was suddenly silent in the room. The Principal had stopped talking. When I looked up, he was watching me with narrow eyes, and fear spread through my veins like molten lava. He asked me if I would like a microphone to talk to my friend. He said it very, very quietly.

And then he boomed, "HAVE I NOT JUST BEEN TALKING ABOUT RESPECT? DID YOU NOT HEAR ME SAY THAT THE NEXT PERSON TO SHOW DISRESPECT WOULD BE SENT HOME? GO, OUT, NOW- YOU'RE HEADING HOME ON THE NEXT BUS!"

Shell-shocked, I walked across the room, filled with my peers, most of them staring in horror at me, some feeling my pain, the rest terrified out of their wits at the display of power they had just seen. Even the rowdy boys forgot to jeer or smirk. I'd been made an example of, and for the rest of that week, every single child toed the line. The Principal had done his job, and the lesson had been learned.

Once outside, and into the waiting arms of a caring teacher, I cried like my heart would break, from the shame. I was a good kid, bordering on teacher's pet - how could I explain camp expulsion to my Mum? How would I hold my head up at school ever again? The drama queen in me thought I'd never make friends at this new school now, not after this.

They didn't send me home, in the end. The Principal was pacified by a teacher, and my punishment was reduced to missing out on an afternoon of fun and games. Which was nearly worse, because I had to face everyone at dinner. After a time, I was old news; kids and staff forgot, life took over again and nobody really cared. My friends stayed my friends, and I made more. But I never forgot, and you won't either, because the first time is always the worst.

My poor defeated child, you made me tell you that story three times. I reminded you that your teacher cared about you and your classmates and did it for your own benefit. That you need not fear going back, as I had feared. I explained what I had learned and then asked you the same. You told me that you would stop being silly in class and listen to your teacher. You asked me to send her a message to tell her just that. So I did, and she was grateful, because she is human and doesn't like to see her children suffer, even if it's for their own good.

We bonded in that moment, you and I, over shared pain and empathy for the other's experience. Hopefully, this will set us up for a strong future communicating with each other, because my child, there will be plenty more of this to come. This is only the beginning and that scares me half to death. But that's my little secret...

Mummy xxx