One of the wonderful things about small children is their complete and utter honesty. A few days ago, I arrived down for breakfast and caught my daughter looking me up and down. “What’s the matter? Do I look all right?” I asked feeling a little self-conscious. She glanced down at my feet and pointed at my scruffy old pair of Converse and said, “Mummy, I think you should stop wearing those trainers.” “Why?” I ask. “Because they make you look a bit fat,” she replied bluntly.
She escorts me upstairs and begins rummaging through my wardrobe. After managing to convince her that high heeled shoes are really not terribly practical on the school run, she settles on a pair of pumps. With the footwear getting her seal of approval, she then turns her attention to my clothes. “Why do you always wear jeans?” she asks. “Because they’re comfortable,” I am quick to reply rather defensively. I watch her sift through the hangers searching for something that would meet her approval and shave a few pounds of her poor middle-aged mother. She pulls out a black velvet dress that I wore at a work Christmas party far too many years ago. “This would look much better,” she says excitedly. I explain how uncomfortable I would feel standing shoulder to shoulder with other mothers in the playground wearing a ball dress, but promised I would consider it for the next party – no not the one you are going to at Cool Play next week. She finally submits to my jeans after discovering a shelf devoted to nothing else.
That night, she turns her attention to my accessories. “Why don’t you wear earrings?” she asks. I tell her I don’t really suit them, failing to admit I actually never find a matching pair in my jewellery box. “Can you grow your hair really long?” comes the next question. I am obviously a total embarrassment to my small six-year-old. I will soon be banned from the playground altogether and ordered to stay in the car, trainers and all. As I leave the room, I notice her pull out a book on princesses from under her pillow. Now it all became clear. The children often call me Princess Mummy, particularly when they want something. Therefore, quite understandably my daughter wonders why her mother isn’t living up to the role.
Right. That’s it. The jeans were being shelved and tomorrow I would surprise her by picking her up from school in a skirt. This was the launch of Princess Mummy, with brushed hair although no tiara I’m afraid, a pair of earrings (matching or not) and even a touch of mascara and some lip gloss for good measure. She would definitely beam with pride when she saw me. As she skipped down the steps from school the following day, she looked me up and down, blushed and said, “What are you wearing Mummy?”
