War

by

So, right now Pudding and I are locked in the mutha of all toddler tussles. A war of wills. A fight to the death. An Armageddon, in which I find myself not only losing my cool, but – worse – my sense of humour. And all over something as ridiculous as clothes. Or, rather, the all-too-frequent lack of them.

I mean, how could you not smirk at the sight of a red-faced, white-lipped mother stalking from house to car on the school run with a wriggling, shell-shocked semi-naked child clasped firmly under one arm? Who wouldn’t have to choke down a chuckle as said mother is busted in the school car park by an astonished pre-school teacher who innocently leaned in to say ‘hello’ only to find the child in the back still bare-chested (and chomping on a cold piece of toast she found in the car seat pocket)? And who could fail to find funny the chirpy honesty of Little Lady Godiva, “Hi, I’m naked cos I had a bit of a strop”?

Me. That’s who.

And why? Because I am insane enough to believe I’m the boss. That my little darling will dutifully succumb to being dressed up like a doll. But. Nothing could be further from the truth. In this crazy clothes war I am a mere footsoldier. Cannon fodder. Bowing to the bloodthirsty bidding of a small but determined tyrant. Who I’ve long since given up on attempting to wrangle into a skirt or dress. Or anything pink, flowery or boasting a design remotely resembling a butterfly. Jeans or leggings (no trimmings), red or blue t-shirts only (and no frills) are the easier commands to obey. Others are less obvious, and change day-by-day (hell, who am I kidding, minute-by-minute, more like) to outraged cries of, “No! That’s not cool!” (like I would know what signifies ‘cool’ to an outraged three-year-old) or “I am NOT a princess!” (go figure) or, my favourite, “Eurgh, that looks like a church” (wtf?). Even when dressing up my enraged adversary eschews her sparkling ‘Frozen’ dress and shimmering Elsa shoes (which she has now gifted to her best boy friend, btw) in favour of a smokin’ green dragon outfit, complete with wings, tail and full headdress.

To be honest, this week isn’t the first time I’ve lost it over the now-customary early-morning clothing brawl. The last time I marched her into pre-school wearing only her pants was in February. She refused to admit to being cold and instead cunningly seized the opportunity afforded by an anxious, on-the-edge mother to negotiate an I-get-to-choose-my-own-outfit day the very next day. “Fuck it, just go with it,” I thought. Until I found myself escorting an insanely trippy-looking Christmas reindeer elf in banana yellow crocs and Peppa Pig leggings through the doors of shame at school.

*sighs*

“Don’t worry, she’s just asserting her personality,” all the clever child psychologist-types will tell me. “Aw, she’s finding her identity. Looking for her own little bit of control.” Bollocks. She knows exactly who she is. How to dig in and get what she wants. And how to rule the entire, quivering cohort with her tiny but imperious rod of iron (and spine-tingling roar).

Given this mutinous history, imagine the trepidation with which I approached The Birthday Party. Ever the pacifist and keen to avoid another soul-destroying diva scene on the big day, I determined to take her shopping to choose her own outfit. Genius. No room for tantrums there. Of course I knew she wouldn’t go near your usual definition of a party frock but had hopes we might get away with a sparkly top and pretty leggings. Something with ribbons, or sequins maybe? Given her beloved co-host and partner-in-crime had already laid out a delicate white satin dress and glittery shoes, I thought I might *just* be in with a shout. But, no. Again. I emerged from the store clasping a new pair of (blue) jeans – and a Captain America t-shirt. From the boys’ section. Obvs.

Nonetheless, whether punch-drunk or battle-weary, I was deluded enough to think I might have won the skirmish. But what is abundantly clear is that I have most certainly lost the war. The war of the wardrobe. And everyone knows exactly who is wearing the trousers now.

Reverse

by

So, just what the heck is it with car manufacturers and their useless innovations? Ok so I now take cup holders and electric seats for granted. And whilst I might whinge a bit about Nigel SatNav, I wouldn’t be without his patronising tones for all the Toblerone in Stansted.

Admittedly there are some modern additions to motoring that make being the family taxi and queen of the roadtrip more palatable. But why, oh why, do you feel compelled to mute the sound system when I reverse? Ffs. What IS that all about? There I am enjoying a gleeful musical moment with the nippers, at least one of us rocking some great air guitar (well, not the responsible driver, obvs) and singing at the top of our voices, when it suddenly…stops. Not only does this add to the children’s natural anxiety that mummy might be heard tunelessly banging out a bit of Blondie at the top of her (vocally challenged) voice, but it just, well, spoils the magic of the moment.

What, exactly, do they think is going to happen? That I might turn my head to look behind only to be hit by a wall of sound that blinds me to other cars/trees/pedestrians? Or that the music, left at its rightful volume (loud), might render me deaf to the cries of help from the dear innocent old lady I’ve just carelessly mown down? Or that I could be so busy doing the bloody Macarena that my ability to parallel park may be seriously compromised?

Ffs (again). I reckon it’s a bloke thing. Guys designing for guys. Guys who can’t multitask. And who demand useless bragging rights for shiny but shit bits of ‘essential’ technology they have no idea how to operate. Take the husband, for example. He was thrilled by all the whizzy, so-called clever specifications on his new company car. Pored over the brochure for weeks, excitedly jabbing at the page and insisting I ooh and aah along with him at functionality it had never occurred to him til then (or me, ever) that he might need. The automatic headlight dimmer sent him into paroxysms of joy and took centre stage at many a family debate. But just how long did it take him to get it working? Weeks *she wails*, bloody weeks. And in the meantime, we just flicked the lights on and off. WITH OUR OWN HANDS.

So, please. Stop ruining my fun. All these car ads promising ‘the drive of your life’ and promoting the exhilaration of the open road. I don’t need your bloody high speed broadband connection, or your sunglasses holder, or your goddam automatic headlight dimmer. More often than not I’m dashing from school gate to sports hall, and then to a ballet lesson, football pitch or supermarket. All within a couple of miles of my home. And am usually more concerned whether I have the right number of children in the car at each leg of the journey than whether I can possibly move my finger a few millimetres to flick a stick. Or turn the volume down (if I must). So, if you want to innovate, give me shit that might actually be moderately useful.

How about:

1) An automatic people counter that not only lets you know how many children made it into the car, but also whether you have the right nippers (and whether they’ve all remembered their school bags/sports kit/musical instruments)?

2) Food resistant upholstery that automatically obliterates any crumb, chunk or dribble of in-car nourishment that doesn’t actually make it into the recipient’s mouth, which is usually most of it (‘it’ being a heady assortment of vile food products that all curiously take on the odour of a dog poo rolled in vomit after just a week of in-car putrification)?

3) A noise-cancelling cocoon for the driver so she doesn’t have to hear, respond to or arbitrate the million fraternal altercations that take place in the other seats (and, whilst you’re at it, the ability to deliver a quick electric shock warning current to any given passenger seat would also help here)?

Now those are innovations I’d welcome. Music to my ears.