Daniel's legacy

I only teach two days a week. The rest of the time, I am immersed in life with my own kids.

But when I am with my grade, I love it. Most of the time, anyway.

Grade Five children are at that magical space between childhood and adolescence. In any one day, they can be sweet, innocent, funny, ridiculous, childish, purile, mature, knowing, supportive, selfish and blind. Some of them are already thinking about being teenagers...while others are firmly entrenched on the comforts of being little.

In the space of four weeks, I have come to love my group of kids. They're a mixed lot, there's no doubt. But at the end of my two days with them, I always find it hard to switch off. One of them asked me the other day why I "only" work two days a week (and I graciously refrained from pinging them on the issue of unpaid Mummy work). I replied that in a perfect world, I would be able to bring my two baby girls with me into the classroom. But if I worked any more than I did, I would miss Phoebe and Maisie too much. The little girl who had asked me the question nodded, and seemed satisfied with my answer.

Today was a particularly challenging day in the classroom. Not that there were behavioural issues that I couldn't handle, or too much work to cover. As normal, there were spats to sort out and social groups to negotiate in the playground; the challenging issue of keeping everybody working and happy regardless of ability level or concentration span; a threatening wet-day timetable. But every teacher worth their salt faces these situations every day. Every teacher I know is just as much a social worker and parent-figure as they are an educator.

No, the thing that played on my mind today was that these energetic little imps seated in front of me were only a few years younger than Daniel Morcombe when he disappeared. That his gentle smile in the now-too-familiar photographs mirrored those of the children in front of me. That just like him, they would be delighted with the notion of shopping for Christmas presents, all by themselves. The very idea of a bad man grabbing them and stealing them away in broad daylight would be ridiculous.

I thought of Daniel, and his parents many, many times today. I cannot fathom how staunch his parents have remained in the face of unimaginable grief. I am sure that you, like me, would give anything to lessen their pain, to dull the ache in their hearts from the loss of their boy. Unfortunately, we cannot.

What we can do, is treasure our children. Hold them tight; know where they are; tell them we love them every day. Teach them to listen to their instincts - to run from danger and scream loudly if they need to.

Most of all, I am going to remember that Daniel Morcombe's parents would give the world to have their son awake all night. They would absolutely love to be sent a note home, asking for late homework. They would do anything, to have pyjamas dropped on the floor; milk spilled on the bench; a fight between siblings to break up; to be late for school; to have to make lunch boxes at midnight; to find a forgotten, fruit-squished excursion notice in the bottom of a school bag; to endlessly pick up Duplo; to watch the Teletubbies for the 473rd time.

When I am complaining about these things, I will stop myself, and remember Daniel and his parents. And I will send them a silent prayer of love, and a promise that Daniel's legacy will not be forgotten.