Princess mummy

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?”

Punk or princess

A few weeks ago we went to our friend’s 40th birthday party. The theme was Punks and Princesses. I usually dread dressing up parties and make a feeble attempt at wearing the odd themed item. However, my husband loves fancy dress and on one of the first occasions we went out together, I remember him turning up in a gold, leather, Flash Gordon suit. On the odd occasion, he wore ‘Flash’, as it was known, even when we were not even asked to wear fancy dress!

Unfortunately, Flash did not really fit the bill, so we went off to a Fancy Dress shop in Semley, which is a hidden treasure trove of fancy dress costumes of all description. Once fully ‘punked up’, we began to get quite excited, not only about going out which is a rare treat with three small children, but also about the prospect of dressing up in some extreme garments. When the evening arrived, we had great fun getting ready. My husband had us rolling around on the floor laughing, as he appeared dressed in a ripped denim waistcoat, jeans and a black leather hat with a gold chain on it. I wore a black net mini skirt, psychedelic pink netted top, a pink spikey wig, studded jewellery, topped off with black lipstick and an awful lot of eye liner.

My daughter, who was busy upstairs putting her Baby Annabel to bed, suddenly appeared in the doorway. Her little face said it all. She stared, wide-eyed at us with her jaw dropped. What had her parents become? Obviously she was used to her and her brothers dressing up, but punks had never featured amongst the fairy, pirate and Snow White outfits. We were laughing, attempting to make light of the situation, but she wasn’t. “Mummy, you are naughty,” she said. “I really don’t think you should go out like that.” The tables had turned and I was being given a dressing down by my five-year-old over my appearance. As we left, singing, “In the Navy,” due to my husband looking more ‘Village People’ than punk, she stood at the doorway in her pink, spotty nightie, utterly horrified that her parents were daring to go out in public dressed like that.

When we arrived, the pub was full of friends from all over the village dressed in an impressive assortment of punks or princess costumes, all revelling in their rare fancy dress moment. A friend said that her son had been utterly bemused, and totally shocked when he came downstairs to find Daddy in the sitting room, dressed in a long, black velvet dress and a pearl choker. He promptly turned and headed back up the stairs, trying to eliminate this vision of his father, the strong, skillful cabinet maker turned elegant princess, from his mind. This was a great occasion for parents to raid the dressing up box and we loved every minute of it, but perhaps next time we do need to prepare our children, to avoid any long-term psychological damage.