Month: March 2016

Sitting in our usual spot outside Waitrose this morning (I’m beginning to wonder whether I should start a whole new blog site: observations from a Waitrose car park) the dogs are getting their usual constant attention and adoration, while I am feeling left on the shelf, when two girls walk into the supermarket wearing their pyjamas, dressing gowns and slippers, much to the surprise and amusement of the other shoppers. This reminded me of a post made by one of my Facebook friends last week, where she commented how she had turned up to her son’s early morning Saturday swimming lesson, only to realise that she was still wearing her pyjama top. What made her post even funnier was the fact that it transpired that the person next to her was wearing her pyjama bottoms. All this talk of how disgusting it is that parents are turning up at the school gates in their nightwear, but it goes to show how easily it is done. I remember when partner popped out to our local supermarket one evening and it was only when he was at the checkout that he realised he was still wearing his slippers. The girls were mortified in case one of their friends had seen him. He wasn’t bothered at all! Another time, I popped into our Tesco Metro and bumped into a friend, who was looking decidedly embarrassed and very pleased to see me: I’ve forgotten my purse, she said to me and then in a hushed tone: and I’m in my pyjamas. I only nipped out for a few things, can you lend me a tenner? 

So all this goes to show, that none of us should have been at all surprised by the mamas in pyjamas at Waitrose this morning: it’s called, ‘leisure wear’ and the boundaries are blurred. I have to say, however, I personally would draw the line at onesies. 

I felt the need to reflect on WBD – my first year without a child at Primary school for some time. I did 12 years of primary school WBD’s, so I feel it’s worth a few moments’ reflection. 

Those of you who have read my blog: Own Clothes Day, will know that WBD and I have not always been comfortable bedfellows. So it was with much amusement that today I was an observer and not a participator. My first observation was to work out what WBD stood for. I saw it written in a couple of Facebook posts before I worked it out. At first, I thought they were referring to the accountancy firm that I use, who have the same abbreviation. It did occur to me fairly quickly, however, that Harry Potter has little to do with tax. Once I had worked this out, post after post came streaming in, with photos of Hermiones and Harry Potters still seeming to be top of the WBD pops. 

Number 1 friend had been moaning about the fact that her son’s school had given strict guidelines on what was and wasn’t allowed this year – presumably to prevent lazy parenting. These new rules would have f***ed me right over, as a Shrek onesie would no longer be allowed. What schools need to understand is that it isn’t being lazy sending your kid in as Wally, with a red and white striped t shirt and their sister’s glasses, it’s called survival. 

Back to Facebook and I was amazed and impressed at the efforts that had been made. That is, until it got to this afternoon and I realised that the kids who looked incredible, had their photos displayed by proud mummies on fb faster than Mills and Boon publish books. By the afternoon, the quality of effort was showing a marked deterioration: am I the only mother who cheated on WBD, a mother had posted, adding: he went as a footballer with the Liverpool FC Annual tucked under his arm…well it’s a book isn’t it? Then came the photo of the two children holding a toaster and a hairdryer, with the caption: forgot to make a costume…so they’re going as pages 89 and 165 of the Argos catalogue. This, is genius. The final post I saw was of a child dressed brilliantly as a super cute ballerina with dog ears and whiskers and a nose painted on her face. The fb post read: Dogs don’t do ballet. Aaah, I thought, how cute. She’s obviously been put in the ballerina dress as an easy option for mum and has insisted on having her face painted as a dog – that’ll teach the mother for shirking, I smiled to myself. I then looked closer at the photo and saw that she was holding a book titled: Dogs Don’t Do Ballet, and the effort suddenly appeared very real. 

So I have spent all day feeling in awe and relieved, that I no longer have to compete with the creative brilliance that clearly exits in this country. I was feeling rather smug about it, until Daughter 4 just came to me and said: it’s World Book Day tomorrow, Mum. My heart sank into my slippers and I felt a cold sweat coming on, but I’m not going to dress up, she continued, I can’t be bothered. 

I now don’t know whether to feel relieved or guilty that my WBD negativity has obviously rubbed off. 

By the way, just to prove that, at some time in the distant past, we did all try:

I’ve worked out Pippi Longstocking, far right, but haven’t got a bloody clue who the other two are. Any ideas?

Partner is hanging his twenty third pair of knickers on the airer this morning. So many pairs of knickers, he’s muttering to himself. Well, we have to wear knickers, I say, curtly and anyway, your pants take up more room on the airer than our knickers do. 

I’m not sure that men ‘get’ knickers. They don’t understand the intricacies involved in buying them and then the heartfelt choice over what pair to wear in the morning. We don’t just have one size fits all pants like they do. No, our lives are so much more complicated than that: period knickers and within that category depends on what day of the month it is, big knickers, for when we know they will not be seen by anyone (however, we’ve all been caught out on that choice more than once in our lives), a thong to avoid the vpl, or  alternatively the flesh coloured ‘very unflattering but sheer’ knickers that ride up your bum and give a wedgie – that no one can see because that’s the point of them, the body shaper control knickers if it’s a fat day, the knickers husband bought for you last birthday that are really impractical and the lace makes you itch, but you haven’t worn them for a while and it has been mentioned, the crotchless knickers – for no other reason than the dog ate the crotch (see blog: crotchless knickers)…lets be honest, the list goes on*

Us females take all these decisions in our stride every morning, but I don’t think a man could cope with the range of options and choices available to him. 

When daughter 4 was born, my younger sister came round and whereas most people bring a card and a cute present, she came and emptied out my knicker drawer. Get rid of those, she said, flinging knickers over her shoulder. My stitches haven’t even healed yet, I remonstrated with her. You can’t have these, she carried on without remorse, chucking another pair out. What are you thinking? She scolded me, throwing big, grey knickers onto the floor, you’ll never get another baby wearing those monstrosities. I don’t want another baby, I wailed, those knickers are my best form of contraception. Please can I keep them, I pleaded. Finally, she finished and stood back looking pleased with herself. I peered into the drawer and looked at the five remaining pairs. You haven’t even left me a pair for each day of the week, I said. You can’t be trusted with any more than that, she retorted. Stick the kids in the car, we’re going knicker shopping!

*Please feel free to add