Archive | October, 2014


6 Oct

September marks the start of the school year and boy did it start with a bang! The bang being my thumping heart when I had to pay for two sets of uniform. My little heart broke a little when I waved the Dolly off for her first day, I had already attended the “meet the other rivals”, sorry parents, coffee afternoon and was on nodding terms with a couple of them.  I saw them clucking in their little groups that they’ve been in since conception of their little treasures and I couldn’t decide which group to infiltrate.  There are the designer mums with skin so tight Phil Collins could do a rendition of in the air tonight on their faces, the “I dress in gym clothes to make you look fat mums”, the harassed working mums, the competitive “my child is sitting gcse’s in reception because I listened to Mozart and ate omega fish oil when I was pregnant” mums and the superior elite mothers who have their own section of playground, their own minions and their own heated thrones, ok not thrones, they survey the playground and pick out victims for the minions to milk of information to build their empire.

We are all waiting on tenterhooks to pick our little darlings up from their first day, there is a hushed anxiety in the air whilst we all wait to hear the teacher regale us of our child’s first day and how they have settled in so wonderfully.  Except there was no glowing fairy godmother-esq teacher with young fledglings flocking around her adoringly, there was an almighty screeching sound bellowing out from the open classroom door, a child’s arms and legs flailing around and the teacher trying to close the classroom door to protect the parents from such a scene.  The tension in the playground reaches fever pitch as eyes dart around looking for the owner of the flailing screeching child, me, my eyes didn’t look around, I involuntarily begin creeping to the back of the playground in the hope of being able to fall into the big hole and be swallowed up.  My backwards steps are suddenly shoved to a halt, I turn around and look and I’m face to face with a skin tight mum who is desperately trying to smile but the god of Botox is conspiring against her, her eyes are looking up at her forehead as she tries to fashion a concerned frown but only ends up looking like she is constipated.  I look at her and she demands to know if that is my daughter, now you know and I know that this is my daughter, she doesn’t know yet, she’s never seen me before, I can swing this, I can pretend, I begin shaking my head and do the obligatory eye roll, all eyes are on me, I’m smiling like a maniac and the evil eyes are penetrating my soul.  I’m doing well and I think I’m getting away with it I’m still grinning and eye rolling but it’s warding them off.  The door opens again and the teacher is looking more composed, I duck behind gym mum in the hope that I can be one of the last mums to collect to reduce the pointed stares, but no, the teacher is calling my name, my daughter is screeching and wailing for her mummy. I have no choice, I have to step forward and claim my prize, I wonder if they will applaud me. The crowd parts to let me through and I do the walk of shame to the tuts and the twittering, as I reach the door the teacher informs me that my beautiful Dolly has kicked her with her shiny new expensive shoes. The gasps could be heard far and wide, I tried not to giggle, I really did but it just slipped out, the teacher gives me the death stare and both my daughter and I had to do the walk of shame together.
After this incident, I was surprised to receive the email inviting me to coffee and croissants by the queen elite Mother. This was to be a “small social gathering, to meet the other mums and to network” hmm, network, as I have no friends I thought I would go, you never know there may be another crazy mum who cannot trust what escapes from her mouth. I go for it, I accept the invitation and trot along to the “gathering”. I was having anxieties over what to wear, do I go smart, gym, casual, or work attire, on the actual day, I went for the first clean thing to fall out of my wardrobe, not everybody’s cup of tea but hey ho. I get to the venue and I am ushered in my a minion and given a cup of filter coffee and I am told that the croissants are due to arrive any minute from the bakery on the corner, I politely asked if that was morrisons, clearly by the reaction, it wasn’t. I was guided further into the venue and put before the queen superior mother like a lamb to the slaughter. She was in the middle of telling the gathered star struck audience the tale of how her husband negotiated with the builder so that he could have his man cave and she could have her own dressing room all for such a bargain price, the star struck lovelies applauded his feat and made wowing noises, I made a loud slurping noise, cue to pointed stares again. Queen superior mother switched her focus on to me, oh heck, I knew I was in for it now. She waved her hand at me as if to flick some dust away, she indicated that she wanted to know my name, as I was about to answer, a minion stepped forward and gave her a run down of my vital stats, name, job, area I live in, bra and pant size, well it might as well have been. I scored some points in the area I live in box, my area is posh, people have money and connections, me, I don’t have a pot to wee in but I have a mobile connection courtesy of Vodafone, that counts as a connection doesn’t it? The minion also proceeded to give me the tag line of “the one who’s daughter kicked the teacher on her first day” I smile nonchalantly as you can only do in these types of situation. Then the questions begin, does she normally do that? How do you control her? What did the teacher say? What did you buy her to apologise? I felt I handled question time well and was encouraged by the amount of horrified looks there were, this only serves to encourage the lottery of words that fall from my mouth. I’m also informed by one of the mothers that her daughter has spoken endlessly about my daughter’s long hair and how she wants it for herself, I jokingly said that I would ask the teacher to keep the scissors away from her, I thought this was funny and snorted coffee and croissant out from all orifices, she, however, muttered that her child was brought up not dragged up and left me with an icy smile.

Days have passed with no incident, until I get a letter in both book bags asking me to collect junk building material. This you may think is an innocent request, it isn’t, it’s an extension of the lunchbox police, they are no longer content with rifling though the contents of the lunchbox and judging your parenting style, no, they want to see what junk you feed your children when they are not around. My eyes move to the recycling bin and quickly move back. Let’s look at the contents and explore the endless possibilities and judgements. A wine box, stressed mother, low income, hasn’t got a wine cellar, could be turned into a castle, the foil bag, once rinsed, could be an astronaut’s something or other. Maybe leave the wine box, ok I have a cereal box, please be granola please please, nope, honey sugar ball things, again a castle or a wing of the replica house that queen superiors mums child is building to replicate their own house. A cider bottle, no, coffee jar for the “hangover” of the cider and wine, it’s a cheap brand, why couldn’t it have been the brand that costs as much as a tank of fuel. The bin rifling is not going well, there must be something that is worthy of the clientele at the school, and there it is in all it’s glory, a glimmer of hope, an empty box of organic crackers, I have been saved, I’m organic I eat crackers not crisps, I will show those mothers. I proudly trot into the school with my cracker box on display waving at everyone with box in hand pointing out the word organic. I am stopped by the ruler of the playground, she looks at my box and sniggers, the snigger brings about her little gang and they fall into formation around me. She asks me if I eat these a lot, clearly I don’t, I’ve never seen the box, I have no idea how it got into my bin, but she doesn’t need to know this. I nod my head with conviction and inform the group how addicted I am to these and eat these for dinner when I’m on a starvation day, yeah right, the only thing I starve is my soul when I haven’t logged in to Facebook for an hour. Queen mum is looking intrigued and really interested in what I have to say, she asks me if I put any toppings on the crackers, I tell her about the oak smoked Scottish salmon, the finest cream cheese, I get carried away when I mention caviar but she was really interested, I was doing well, she might let me into the gang. The mouth lottery is flowing well until she rudely cuts me off, I stop mid flow, mouth wide open, she asks me what the rabbit eats. I don’t understand, I don’t have a rabbit, what is she talking about. All eyes are on the box, my eyes are now on the box and it all becomes clear. These so called crackers are fancy rabbit treats, I don’t understand, the box is too nice, how did the box end up in my bin, what about my salmon topping, what am I going to do now? I can hear a voice chatting away, I zone back in and I realise it’s me who speaking, what am I saying oh lord! I catch up with myself and realise that I am discussing some so called research that I have read telling me that the rabbit treats are the answer to eternal youth. I haven’t read any research but suddenly everyone is interested in my findings, they begin complimenting me on my youthful skin, I’m asked if I have had any “help” I laughed and couldn’t stop myself, I waved the cracker box my audience gasped, I could almost hear the cash registers pinging away and sales going through the roof, the whole population going mad for the rabbit crackers and me with my little known research being nominated for an award for being good or something, I’ve got into the gang they love me. I must dash any how, I’ve got some rabbit crackers to fancy up for the bring and share.

Much love xx