Skip to main content

My personal hell

Spent a hideous three hours in Peter Jones today to get the Small(er) One's new school uniform. Yes, I always leave it too late... the upshot is that at least she won't be going to school naked, but she will be going to school minus a tie, school badge and wearing a hat that's so small it has to be fixed on to the top of her head with bobby pins.

If only I could be one of those mothers who manages to buy everything BEFORE the only store that stocks the required uniform runs out of the essentials... but then that would probably make me a (s)mother. Guess I'll stick with the slummy mummy tag after all.

It could be a lot worse though. It could be that the Small(er) One wouldn't have to wear a school uniform at all. If this were to be the case then we'd have to cope with an impassioned What To Wear debate every single morning, as we have over the summer holidays. In fact, this daily debate quickly escalated to Changing Clothes At Least 15 Times Per Day - and preferably clothes that belong to other people (my Banana Republic cardigan worn backwards was a special favorite, teamed with Firstborn's Hello Kitty knickers).

I thought the obsession with clothes thing didn't kick in until the teenage years? Does this mean that it will only get WORSE???

Comments

Kwame Oh said…
Yes the Peter Jones trip I can say was not the highlight of many a trip to Chelsea, We are into week two and my poor darling wonders why her parents have somehow not managed to sew on her school badge. Ah well will most probably wait till am pulled up at school gate by headmistress, wanting to know when I lost the use of my hands, or whether I had heard of a needle and thread.

Popular posts from this blog

Apologies for being incommunicado this week and hope none of you out there are too distraught not to be receiving the usual almost-daily MotV missives. The reason for the silence is that I'm up to my neck, metaphorically-speaking, in research papers for my first grad course assessment. This experience has made me realise how rigorously un-academic I am in my thinking. It has also illuminated how reliant I am on red wine in order to get through endless evenings typing furiously on my laptop, not to mention the fueling of increasingly colorful curses that I feel obliged to aim at the University's online library system which consistently refuses to spit out any of the journals I'm desperate for (I refuse to believe this is 100% due to my technical incompetence...) Oh well, if this is the price one has to pay in order to realize a long-cherished dream then it's not all that bad... No one ever said a mid-life career change would be easy. Wish me luck!

A thought

Perhaps sometimes a gift can be delivered in the guise of a tragedy. It's just a matter of perception, after all. I suspect that the talent lies in looking beyond the surface to what lies beneath and beyond. And, of course, being able to make sense of it all and going on to apply that knowledge to building a productive way forward. Here's hoping.

It's my party and I'll cry if I want to

A friend recently emailed me to say that her big memory of her stay with us last year is that she had a great birthday, one of the few where she didn't 'act like a spoiled grumpy princess'. She tried to give me all the credit but as I explained to her, it was all down to having a fellow female organising the birthday fun rather than leaving it to her partner. Her email got me thinking about birthdays and how very different men and women are in their attitudes to celebrating special occasions. It also had me thinking about my birthday two years ago when I threw a major tantrum in the Carrefour car-park after being told that we were off to do the weekly shop, kids in tow, which was simply the final straw at the end of a very uninspiring day. In contrast, my birthday last year was rather lovely (a morning on my own in a spa with no mobile coverage, pure selfish bliss). This year - in a few short months, eek! - I'll be hitting the grand old age of 38. This will be my las...