Yesterday, my five (going on fifteen) year-old daughter arrived home with a note in her school bag inviting the children to take part in a non-school uniform day in exchange for a small donation to charity. Before I had even finished reading the note to her, she had sprinted upstairs and had begun tearing open her drawers and laying clothes out on her bed, in preparation for 48 hours time.
A while later, I popped my head round her door and told her that I would be in shortly to help her choose what would be most appropriate and practical to wear, taking account of the hot weather, hopscotch in the playground and potentially self-harming accessories, such as wands and crowns. This provoked the biggest outcry I had ever witnessed. She turned on me absolutely furious that I had even suggested that as the mother I might have some say as to what a five-year-old girl should wear. She screamed, shouted and sobbed, throwing herself on her bed amongst a pile of pink accessories.
Not suprisingly, this prompted my husband to look up from his e-mails (in the form of a Blackberry – a remote handheld piece of dreadful technology which never leaves my husband’s side and enables him to keep in contact with work 24 hours a day). Ever the diplomat, he intervenes telling me to relax and let her wear what she likes. “After all, she is only five,” he adds. In fact, he offered to help her get dressed so I could go downstairs and enjoy a glass of dry and chilled wine. And this coming from the man, who once given the responsibility for dressing children, resulted in my daughter going to her London nursery school in a vest (inside out) and a pair of tracksuit bottoms with Minney Mouse on, which had been purposely hidden at the back of her drawer. To top it all, it was the day of the school photo so we are constantly reminded of the little vest standing shoulder to shoulder with smocked gingham dresses.
However, I knew that I had no option but to comply and sat downstairs reflecting on my mother dressing me in scratchy guernseys and sensible brown buckle-ups (slip-ons were not even allowed on the scene until 13!). An hour later, my husband reappeared mouthing to me, “Say nothing.” She proudly entered the room in all her glory. She was dressed in a red floral skirt teamed with a stripy pink pyjama top. My eyes were then drawn to the supersoft tights marked “18-24 months” which meant the crotch was round by her knees, a pair of pink trainers and topped off with the contents of her jewellery box hanging round her neck. She looked at me and said, “Mummy, do I look pretty?” I was having palipitations but with a sip of my drink and a few deep breaths I managed to keep my cool and calmly said, “Lovely darling.”
