There was a period of time when I was such a cool dude. Amazingly awesome. A big cheese.
It was a sliver of a window though. If you blinked you might have missed it. The planets for the briefest moment all aligned in my favour.
Not only did it not matter that my shoes were so last year or that I hadn’t cut my hair for six months. That was not expected. My husband loved me if I smiled for half a second instead of sticking pins in voodoo dolls of him. Minimum effort was needed there. In addition, there was no pressure from the peer groups surrounding me – knackered Mums whose bar was set so low that we agreed style was a snot-free jumper. If I wore lipstick I was basically on a par with Beyonce.
But best of all my ego soared high due to a self-created mini gang of groupies who would hang on to my every word and draw pictures celebrating my beauty.
|A picture depicting me with the sun shining out of my
I was the queen of my own particular castle and Taylor Swift, Ant n Dec and Tracy Beaker had nothing on me. NOTHING!
It was a blissful time.
Now my star is waning and a new phenomenon is occurring. Instead of being a goddess in my children’s eyes, my devotees don’t seem as devoted. It is like they haven’t got the memo (sent by me) that I am still splendid. Instead of being the star of the show, a model of mothering, they have decided that I am a bit cringe-worthy at times.
Not always. Not yet. But sometimes…
I wouldn’t say it was a fall from grace so to speak but let’s just say I know how Madonna felt at the Brits.
It came to light after I left my friend’s house the other day where I had been loudly tickling her little boy. My daughter whispered clearly distressed: “Mum, that was really embarrassing.”
I was probably expecting this when she hit a pre-teen time frame but at seven!
No. Surely it can’t be true I thought. She thinks I am wonderful. I truly thought I would be immune to the embarrassing parent syndrome. Where they not all the other day fighting to sit beside me on the couch and crying clinging on to my legs because I was going the flicks without them?
I needed to check that I was still down with my kids so when my two oldest children were joined by a few of their little mates on the school run I took the chance. Casually, so as not to alert them to my internal panic, I asked what things (other) mums do that make them squirm.
They held nothing back. The cheeky
There were no surprises with the disapproval displayed when we dribble spit on our fingers and splatter it all around their face in an impromptu clean up or their pique about over enthusiastic hugs and kisses as their friends watch. My son also singled me out for the crime of tucking his shirt into his underpants in the middle of the play ground and the daughter said that barking at her to stop showing off when she was in the middle of the funniest joke EVER was quite annoying.
But it was the random misdemeanours that we mums apparently do that made me chuckle:
- Dancing after beer
- Wearing black trousers
- Selling cakes at the school fete
- Kissing daddy
- Talking to their teacher
- Swearing at other drivers (this wasn’t me honest)
- Talking about characters in TV programmes like they are my friends (for the record me and Alicia Florrick are tight)
- Asking if they would prefer Robbie Williams or Jamie Dornan to be their Daddy (I may have been doing the beer dancing at the time)
- Singing along to Frozen
- Asking to put Frozen on all the time (again not me)
- Putting the seat belt on for them
- Laughing too loudly
- Wearing track suit bottoms
- Nudging them and asking if so and so is their girlfriend or boyfriend
- Shouting at the telly
- Wearing flip flops
- Chasing Dom from Dick and Dom fame down the road (this again wasn’t me).
- Sweets will always work
- The super sensitivity to their place in the world will get worse before it gets better
- My children are ace – sarcastic little smart alecs – but amusing and ace
- That Dom from Dick and Dom walks so fast that no one will ever catch him. Not even Usain Bolt.
|OMG what is she doing! Pretend we don’t know her.|