Teach diversity? We live diversity

My daughter has started nursery and on the first settling in day where I had to leave her for a short while and entertain myself I went to the library round the corner from the building and looked up the Ofsted report. I’d read it before but wanted to reassure myself that we weren’t leaving her somewhere grossly inappropriate.

The report is ok. It’s not totally brilliant, but not awful either. It’s one of the tools we used to select a nursery, along with cost, convenience, safety and atmosphere. Above all, in fact, atmosphere. Would our daughter be happy and well cared for were the main questions we asked ourselves.

But there is one particular line in the Ofsted report that I find particularly irritating. It says “The promotion of inclusion and diversity is generally satisfactory; although not prominent in feature at the setting.”

This nursery is in Haringey, one of the most diverse areas in the entire country. Over 120 languages are spoken by its residents. And the nursery, while not representative of local families financially (due to the cost of childcare), is pretty representative ethnically. The children and the staff come from many cultures. There are several languages spoken, talks by parents on where they come from and displays about different countries. And while I can see that in less diverse areas specific promotion of diversity and inclusion might be needed, my daughter, and the kids at her nursery, live diversity every day. In the people who look after them, the kids they are looked after with, the streets they walk down, the shops they pass, the homes they come from. In fact if she was to be taught about the real world in which we live she’d need the specific promotion of the fact many places are homogenous and some people are bigots. Yet they call the promotion of diversity satisfactory. Well I think it’s outstanding.

I hate coming home

I like going to work. I don't mean the actual working, though actually I enjoy that too, but the actual going, the journey. At the moment one day a week I drop my daughter off at her childcare and drive about an hour to work. Sometimes I just enjoy the silence for a bit. Then I listen to the Today Programme. I hate the Today Programme with its in-jokes and smarter-than-you quips and up-its-own-arseness but oh the joy in listening to it uninterrupted.

I get to work in time to have a hot drink. Yes, a HOT hot drink, and a think and a read of the papers and time to plan my day and then I spend the day, you know, working, being intellectually challenged and busy and full of thought. It's all great.

But I hate coming home.

On the way to work I have a purpose - to get to work, and the luxury of time to myself. At work I am working, including through my lunch break to ensure I can leave immediately my teaching finishes so I can pick up my daughter. On the way home though the only purpose is to get home. Having not thought about anything but work all day, on the drive home I can only think about seeing my baby. It's a panicky feeling that every car I let go ahead of me and every mile under the speed limit and every red light makes worse.

It's glorious seeing my daughter at the end of the day, but truly, coming home, the journey, is awful.