Don’t Look At Me. She Dressed Herself.

Me [girds loins and adopts chipper yet patently contrived breeziness]: Right, so what do you want to wear today?
Her: Dwess.
M: Okay, how about this denim one?
H: No! Like twousers.
M [quick mental scan for girly keywords]: Well, yes, it’s denim like your jeans but look at these sparkly sequins; they’re pretty aren’t they?
H [adopts contemplative look, head to one side, lips pursed]: Hmmmm. Think……..not.
M [holds up top with 80s-style girl motif plus plain, matching skirt]: How about this?
H: Ooh, like that! [grabs top with one hand, skirt with the other, squashes top adoringly to chest and discards skirt onto floor. Rummages for Bo-ho style turquoise skirt with lavish gold embroidery*]
H: This skirt!
M: Well, you see that doesn’t really go with the top you’ve got.
M: Fine, well let’s find a top to go with it then.
H [volume increasing]: LIKE THIS TOP!!
M: Yes, but you’ll look a bit odd with that top and that skirt, plus we only have pink tights.
H [smiles sweetly and gazes into my eyes]: That’s OK mummy.
M: Well, it’s not really because we’re going out and—
H [smile departs]: WANT LADY TOP!! WANT BOO SKIRT!!!
M [holding up pink skirt to match ‘lady’ top]: Do you not think—
H [strikes dramatic silent movie heroine pose]: NOOOOO!!!!
M: I’ll get your tights.

*It’s an eclectic mix. We get a lot of hand-me-downs.


Art is a Tart

So Girl had a blast of culture at the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art the other week (for ‘culture’, read ‘coffee and millionaire shortbread after a cursory glance at the fat tourist sculptures’). The speed at which the deceptively elderly-looking security guard scurried through at the sound of my camera shutter suggested photography was discouraged but I managed to sneak a snap of the most enormous new-born I’ve clapped eyes on since the day I witnessed a caesarean section performed on a dairy cow (long story). Sadly, I’ve realised it’s probably not acceptable to post unauthorised photographs of someone’s artwork, even with a small child looking disconcerted in front of it, but I’d seriously recommend any locals reading take a trip to the gallery in the near future in the hope of catching this massive creature.  At around thirty feet long and a good five feet high, it’s a corker. And whereas both of my children popped out looking like shiny cherubs, the sheer size of this makes it pretty unpleasant to look at.

Girl herself was definitely a tad nonplussed at the gargantuan gurgler but it seemed to awaken her inner artist, as she displayed in extravagant fashion the following week using the medium of Crayola on sitting room wall.


So much for the idea of introducing her to a bit of culture. I’ll stick on The Smurfs next time.

p.s. A hairdryer, and a damp cloth, in case you were wondering.

Happy New Term

 Copyright (c) <a href=''>123RF Stock Photos</a>So it’s back to school tomorrow following the tumble-weedy no-man’s land of Jan 2nd – 9th that forms the tail end of the Scottish schools Christmas holidays.  During this grey period when other mums have been grinding their teeth in frustration as their children get in the way of a good binge at the sales, I’ve in fact enjoyed having the Boy at home and will rather miss him lolling upside-down on the couch, dirty feet scraping the walls, chewing filthy fingernails as he moans for more Wii time.

  I may get to keep him for another day, mind you.  He’s cultivated a nasty cold that left him sounding like a retired miner come bed-time, so a rare ‘sickie’ might be in the offing.  And I mean rare, mind.  I’m not your ‘soft mum’ who keeps the little darling tucked up in bed at the merest sniffle.  That’s not how we were brought up.  As a child, even if one of us had managed to sever an arm at the shoulder we’d have been packed off to school, provided a couple of tendons remained intact to keep the thing dangling inside the sleeve of our shirt in the manner of a stringed mitten hanging down its duffle coat arm.

  No, the reason I’d keep the Boy at home would be to avoid the displeasure of his teacher.  Pushing forty, I still worry about upsetting the authorities, and the Boy has mentioned Miss __ complaining of sniffling (or was it snivelling?) children bringing their infections into the classroom.  I don’t want to upset her.  Mind you, my card’s probably already marked because the Boy didn’t give her a Christmas present.  There seems to be a growing trend to give teachers lots of stuff at various points in the school year and I intended to participate but kept swithering about the right gift.  One of the mums-in-the-know said she likes Vodka Mules but that didn’t seem appropriate.  Sending my six year old to class with alco­-pops clinking in his school bag might have given the wrong impression of his home life, and the teacher may have been a little disturbed to think that the parents are wise to her drinking habits.  I was also told she smokes and for a brief moment was tempted to wrap up a packet of Lambert and Butler but she’s actually quite nice and that didn’t seem fair.  And again, there’s the ‘questionable home life’ issue.

  So in the end, rather predictably, I ran out of time and Miss __ got nothing from us, save the card the Boy was organised enough to write himself.  Despite scrambling around in cupboards on the last morning of term I couldn’t even find an intact packet of mince pies to be wrapped up hastily.  And of course then she gave each of the children in her class a present.  Sigh.

I’ll just have to pull out all the stops come the Summer holidays.

Vodka Mule, Miss?