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?”

Sports day

In recent weeks, I expect many children and parents have celebrated or commiserated over their school sports day. In our house, there were two very different attitudes towards the upcoming day. Our six-year-old daughter barely mentioned it and seemed to gloss over any mention of the word ‘sport’. On the contrary, our five-year-old son could barely contain himself in the days leading up to the great event and could talk of nothing else. Whilst our daughter is totally uncompetitive in life, our son was born with a stopwatch round his neck. Life, for him, is one big race, and the desire to win.

On the morning of the big day, our son consumed three Weetabix and enough fruit to tick off his six portions before 8.30am. He then sped around the garden on his bicycle, limbering up for the day ahead. Meanwhile, our daughter quietly sipped her orange juice totally engrossed in her latest edition of The Tiara Club.

As we were driving to school, my daughter said, “Mummy, you won’t embarrass us by shouting out during the races will you?” What? No shouting? Isn’t that what sports day was all about? Adrenalin-fuelled parents shouting from the sidelines and quietly limbering up for the parent’s race taking place later. On the contrary, the role of parents now seems to have shifted towards taking some first class video footage and capturing some great shots of a child running down the field with a small beanbag on their head. Here were the parents from Thatcher’s generation who were reared to claw their way to the top, suppressing their shouts and bellows and telling their children it was all about taking part and not winning. I felt I was going to burst when it came to the sack race, to the point where I would have gladly grabbed the nearest reusable shopping bag and jumped with them towards the finishing line.

When the cup was awarded, we all clapped politely as the winners stepped forward. Later, my son struggled to hide his disappointment. I told him how well he had done and how it was all about taking part. “No, it’s not,” he said. “It’s all about winning.” I could see his point. I mean how was I to tell him later that it was all about ‘applying’ for the job, rather than getting it? “And we probably would have won if you had shouted out our names louder,” added my daughter.

Birthday preparations

Watching my four-year-old in the days leading up to his fifth birthday, I realised that nothing else compares to the excitement a small child feels. Every time it was mentioned or he caught a glimpse of wrapping paper his whole face would light up and he would bounce off in the best of moods.

Meanwhile, I have been silently panicking. Being temporarily lame after my recent netball injury, preparations have been slow to say the least. Each morning, my son has arrived early in my bedroom, peered over me and said, “Mummy, how is your foot?” How considerate and caring I thought. He then added, “You will be alright to wrap my presents won’t you?” Presents! Oh yes. The day before the big day, I dash off to Yeovil and drag The Toddler and my leg around to find a much longed for Pirate Ship. Back home, exhausted and a little stiff I realise that I must now turn my attention to all the other paraphernalia that goes with a five-year-old birthday party. I turn to the Internet for some much needed help and stumble on www.partypieces.co.uk. Here was the solution to all my last minute problems. The following day a large box arrived full of reasonably priced pirate plates, hats, filled party bags and balloons. Also, to my utter relief a ‘make your own party cake pack’, containing cake mix, icing, disposable tray and a basic step-by-step guide, that even the amateur cake baker like me could follow. For the first time ever, I was able to shift from the chocolate sponge with Cadbury’s buttons, to an impressive treasure box, complete with gold coins. I was up there with the mothers who create the most impressive train and then try and convince me it was just cobbled together the night before.

That evening, I turned my attention to wrapping up the pirate ship and imagined the look on his small face when he discovered what lay beneath the Dr Who wrapping paper. I opened the box and out rolled out several small bags containing lots of small pieces and a five-page instruction leaflet on putting the ship together. “Aaaaargh”, I shrieked. Late into the night, after several glasses of wine and under the watchful gaze of the border terrorist, I hand-built the ship. I collapsed into bed and wished myself to sleep, rather than worrying about the weather forecast.

At 2am, a small hand nudged me. “Is it my birthday yet?” “No,” I groaned. For the next few hours, I drifted back to those early morning contractions five years ago and before I knew it, the nudge returned. “Mummy, it’s raining.” I jumped up, flung open the curtains and looked out onto driving rain drenching the fields. Oh help! However, as I turned to catch a glimpse of my excited son standing tall and flexing his muscles in the mirror, I could not help but smile. “Look, I am definitely bigger now. I look as though I’m five don’t I?”

The lame mother

The mother is out of action, stuck on the sofa with her sprained foot wrapped in a bandage. It happened while playing a game of netball with some of the other more agile mothers in the village. I leapt into the air to catch the ball and having not played for 20 years suddenly remembered the dreaded static footwork rules and promptly landed awkwardly, collapsing onto the tarmac. From there it was off to hospital with a suspected broken ankle.

Thankfully, when the news came that my bones had survived the fall, I flung my arms round the rather startled doctor in utter delight. I can cope with a Tubigrip any day and with a couple of Paracetemol, I would be dashing round the house at the normal pace by morning. How wrong I was. With one leg definitely out of action for the next few days, my hopping skills were not expert enough to get three children ready for school. My husband happily took the helm, much to the children’s delight. I lay in my bed listening to the commotion downstairs. Every so often, one of the children came bounding in to report on the chocolate mousses Daddy had given them for breakfast. A few moments later, my husband appeared and climbed into bed beside me. “What on earth are you doing?” I said glancing at the clock. “I just need to lie down for five minutes. You’ve no idea how exhausting it is.” 14 years of marriage have taught me to say nothing. However, once the five minutes were up, I ran through the checklist. “Have you got the Show and Tell? Have you remembered the children are wearing fancy dress for charity today? Have you got their swimming kit? Have you made the packed lunches taking into account the likes and dislikes? They have done their homework haven’t they?” He looked at me with a pained expression and headed back downstairs. I hollered after him, “Don’t forget their sun hats and remember to apply sun tan lotion.”

The commotion continued downstairs and I could not contain myself any longer. I began the mammoth hop downstairs. I felt the need to double check that everyone was in fact wearing something suitable and that hair and teeth had been brushed. However, by the time I reached the kitchen they had already left and I was presented with the aftermath. Most of the contents of the fridge had been spread across the table, the dishwasher lay open full of clean dishes from the night before, while the sink overflowed with pans. The puppy and the border terrorist were perched on chairs beside each other lapping up some leftover Cheerios. One leg or two, I set to work hopping round the kitchen clearing up.

The bicycle ride

My husband scrambles around the boot of the car, trying to put the back seats down in preparation for the bicycles. Meanwhile, I refer to the instruction manual and shout orders from the doorway about which lever to try next. Eventually, they fold down and we begin squeezing the bikes into the boot. Crouched in the back, my husband heaves them in, trying different angles to get the boot to close. “We have got to get a bike rack,” he says through gritted teeth.

The children excitedly climb in, sporting brightly coloured cycling helmets in preparation for their first proper bicycle ride. We wave to Daddy, who has the garden shed to build, and tell him we will be back in an hour. We arrive in Sturminster Newton at the entrance to the newly opened North Dorset Trailway. We heave the bikes out and set off with a backpack full of essential rations, consisting of Jaffa Cakes and a bottle of water.

The sun shines down on us as we cycle along the path past water meadows and over the River Stour. As I watch the children ride ahead of me, I realise that a whole new world has opened up, now they have abandoned the stabilisers. My son “vrooms” ahead, occasionally skidding to a stop, to check on his mother steadily pedalling behind him. As we approach walkers I call, “Keep to the left.” They pedal over to the right and then wobble over to the left, just missing a few passers by and their dogs.

Much to the children’s delight, we then come to a hill. “Brake,” I shriek from behind them as I watch them speed down, dust flying up behind them. “We can’t,” they shout. After a quick stop to embark on some ‘brake’ training and to re-energise with a Jaffa Cake, we are on our way again. The children are determined to cycle to Shillingstone and back. Admittedly, I am nervous given we are amateurs on our first bicycle ride which happens to be six miles long. However, we successfully reach our destination and head back with a little less enthusiasm. Suddenly, I hear a yell and turn to see my daughter take a tumble onto the path. She begins screaming, holding her knee. I dab the graze with a bit of tissue from my pocket and instantly regret not having a first aid kit. I know that a plaster would result in an instant recovery. We try to jolly her along with another Jaffa Cake and encourage her to get back on the bike. However, having now also spotted a graze on her arm, the tears roll full and fast. For the next two miles I am bent double pushing a small bike, as well as my own while my daughter hobbles behind me sobbing uncontrollably. “Call the air ambulance,” she cries. Walkers stroll by, greeting us cheerily and I struggle to smile. An hour later, overheated and exhausted we see the car park ahead of us. “I think I’m alright to cycle now,” says my daughter as she climbs onto her bike and speeds off. I watch in disbelief. “Never again,” I mutter.

Trip to London

We are sitting having a picnic in Green Park, on a half-term trip to London. My four-year-old son suddenly asks, “Mummy, why are there so many baddies in London?” For a moment, I think he is referring to the national publicity about London’s knife crime and begin to tell him that whilst there are some baddies, there are many more goodies. He pauses for a moment before adding, “But why are the baddies all sitting on benches eating their lunch?” I glance across to look at a mass of men in suits enjoying their sandwiches in the sun. Why does he think they are baddies? “Because they’re wearing black and baddies always wear black.”

Now everything becomes clear. Earlier as we had walked along the busy pavements, he had been careful to step aside when any man in a suit walked past. I had mistaken this for politeness. Actually, he was quite terrified and had convinced himself that anyone wearing a suit was a member of a large London baddy gang.

The three children finish their lunch and bound off into the park to let off some steam, after a morning’s trailing round a museum. They rugby tackle each other to the ground, shrieking and I feel instantly relieved that they are wearing old jeans. However, I am horrified to see The Toddler suddenly whip down his trousers and ‘widdle’ on the grass, much to the amusement of his brother. At that moment, three small girls scoot past him staring. They are dressed in matching floral smocked dresses, their hair neatly held back off their face with velvet hair-bands. Meanwhile, my daughter, with her mass of brown hair unleashed around her face, is busy picking up litter from the ground. The girls’ smartly dressed mother looks aghast as my daughter scoops up old tissues and a crisp packet stuffing them into her coat pocket. “Just leave it,” I shout. “But Mummy, the litter might kill the birds,” she cries.

Suddenly, I hear high pitched screams and see the two boys running towards me terrified. “The big birds are chasing us,” shrieks my son. A small group of pigeons are following behind them, desperately hoping to be fed. With the three children huddled around my legs, I shoo the birds away, much to the amusement of the lunchtime workers. The pigeons refuse to budge and more join them. I fling the Toddler in the buggy and yell, “Run.” We sprint out of the park and return to the safety of our small flat, away from the urban baddies, litter and pigeons.

The haircut

The Toddler is a fairly amiable little chap. Most of the time he is placid, content and happily follows behind his siblings with his grubby rag in his hand.

However, the one thing he just can’t abide is The Haircut. A year ago, he happily sat on my lap, having his baby curls snipped for the album. When his new Toddler hair began growing ready for the next cut, he dug his heels in and refused to let a pair of scissors anywhere near his small auburn head. Despite knowing our lovely hairdresser Sally well, he simply refused to cooperate. Sally quite sensibly suggested we leave it for a while so as not to traumatise the poor little mite. However, as his mother I was perfectly happy to pin him to my lap, hold his head in my hands and shout, “Cut”.

As the hair gradually grew and he began looking up from under his fringe, a friend suggested we try cutting his hair at home. She thought he would be less worried in a familiar environment, with Balamory to distract him. We duly tried this, but predictably he began screaming once he saw the scissors and even Josie Jump couldn’t distract him while I made a desperate attempt to snip at a side burn. It continued to grow, but not in a small, cool surfer kind of way – more like small thin rat’s tails falling around his neck. People began to make comments such as, “How sweet,” while his Granny, never one for holding back, said, “When are you going to cut that dreadful hair?” I was at my wits end, so Granny, who is often quick to remind me that children only behave badly with their parents, stepped into the frame and said she would take him. An hour later, she returned red-faced and fairly dishevelled, handed me the Toddler and said, “I need a drink.”

Finally, I was left with my last option. As night fell and The Toddler drifted into his golden land of slumbers, I tiptoed into his room with my rather curved edge nail scissors. I set to work on one side under the dim light of the landing, and then gently turned his head to start on the other. He stirred and murmured, “No,” sleepily, at which point I ducked down beneath the bed, so as not to wake him. As I edged back up, he sat up and stared at me. It was all over for one night at least. The next night, I was back with my scissors to do the other side. Job done. He now has probably the worst haircut in Dorset, with long and short strands scattered across his small head. I am just utterly relieved that we have at least a month or so before I have to embark once more on my midnight haircuts.