I heard the phrase “you check your dignity in at the door during childbirth” bandied about a few times when I was pregnant. Sure, I’d seen the antenatal class photos and thought I knew what was up (and down, and sideways, and is-that-even-part-of-a-human-body?!), but after four endometriosis operations, a myriad of tests and a round of IVF, I already felt like my dignity was that unclaimed suitcase you see going around the luggage carousel at the airport. “It’s okay – you’re growing a baby!” Pregnancy introduces new levels of embarrassment to women the world over. Maybe you opened a car door and threw up in the gutter of a busy street while in the throes of morning sickness. Perhaps you kicked your shoes off under the desk at work then found yourself unable to cram them back on your swollen tootsies when it came time to attend a meeting. It’s not unusual to burst into noisy sobs during TV ads. Inappropriately timed and completely unexpected burps that rival those of a drunk first year university …
This was pretty much how I imagined motherhood would be. I won’t clue Tilly in on the full story just yet.
“But I wanted a bomblet egg, not a bloiled egg!” Sorry for the mixup madam, I’ll remove the offending boiled egg from your bill, and will make an omelette next time.
Tilly: “I hid the hairbrush so you can’t brush my hair. Absoluuuutely don’t look under THAT cushion”. Amy: “I made you something at school for Mothers’ Day. But I’m not supposed to give it to you until Sunday, and I won’t tell you what it is, even if you ask me, cos it’s a surprise. OK IT’S FUDGE! I MADE YOU FUDGE! THERE’S ALSO A CARD!” My daughters need to work on their deception skills if they ever plan on sneaking out when they’re teenagers.
Kidney beans look a bit like Jellybeans, but don’t even remotely taste like Jellybeans. Now the world is a sad and terrible place.
The lovely Miffy Welsh shared some of her early childhood education insights with me for Little Treasures Magazine earlier this year. I’m having to take a re-read of it myself after hitting a preschool-drop-off-wobbles hurdle this morning! Unsurprisingly, I often fall into the “hanging around talking to other parents” category, and must remember that drop off is about my daughter, not about me seizing an opportunity to talk with Other Actual Adults.
Olé! Proost! Cheers, bro. It’s a multicultural dress-up evening
Long car trip home. The girls pleaded and pleaded we “put on some music by Dora The Explorer!” We don’t have any music by Dora The Explorer. And even if we did, I don’t think playing it would be good for the long term stability of our family. So we put on The Gipsy Kings and told them it’s music by Dora’s Dad.
My mother-in-law went into town to get a humidifier to help the girls’ coughs. She forgot the humidifier, and came home with Frozen tracksuits and a giant unicorn instead. Either way, they seem remarkably better.
Meanwhile, in the backseat, a silent protest was underway against the parental singalong to Elton John in the front seat. Then we sang along to Roxy Music and the protest numbers doubled.