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1-4 Yrs: The Buggy Blog - 'Snot Fair
'D'oh, it's not fair' laments J, a premature teenager with rounded shoulders and Neanderthal arms. Well poppet, I've news for you. Life's unfair. You're just at the start of a journey that's guaranteed to be littered with a thousand disappointments along the way. Take yesterday's playground tumble as a starter for ten. Though sometimes messy and invariably painful, a playtime injury can also reap its rewards. There's the drama of being whisked off to 'The Medical', a trophy plaster to brandish and an 'I'm brave' sticker too if you're lucky. But these alone were not reward enough for J's bloodied knee it seems. Stuff the nurse, her sizeable Band-Aid and the courageous lion stick-on, my son had eyes only for the jackpot. But with only two paltry sympathisers coming to his aid he was positively crestfallen. No crowd of rubber-neckers, no gaggle of cooing big girls, no red-carpet adulation for his pains. What a letdown for a wannabe drama queen.
This of course is just one example in a litany of everyday disappointments. There was the time the cherished shark toy was irreparably trodden on. And our Natural History Museum visit where the much-hyped Great Blue Whale room was closed for cleaning. Not to mention the time he was barred from the holiday-park log flume ride for being under-height. What about when someone else'd checked out 'The Bear Under the Stairs' which we'd expressly gone to the library to borrow. Or the cancellation of a much-anticipated playdate due to chicken pox. The discovery that a longed-for Underground Ernie dressing-up outfit arrived missing the vital Walkie Talkie. And finding out he couldn't go to Y’s party as it was a girl-only invitation list. Oh what a catalogue of woes … But wait, there's more around the corner. Though used to winning at home, J's practically guaranteed to come in amongst the 'good effort' stragglers at his imminent school sport's day. He'll eventually twig that I'm not in fact 'the best mummy in the world'. And in spite of current protestations, his 4-year-old flame SB probably won't end up as his wife in the long run. Crushing. But believe me sonny, it doesn't get any easier with age. To be honest, I too am fairly disappointed that I'm not superwoman enough to be 'the best mummy in the world'. Third time round and I'm still forlorn that S's first words are regular 'da da das' in lieu of an ode to mum. And I'm also gutted to note that, older and wider with 3 pregnancies under my belt, I'm no longer and probably will never again be a size 12. And the 14s are stretching it too if I'm honest. On top of all that, there's also that large, pink-coloured disappointment which is staring me in the face. 3 boys. No girls. Oh how I long for flowery tights, pinafore dresses and pink gingham shoes. I mourn the loss of future girly shopping expeditions or anyone remembering my birthday in years to come. Unless any of them marries a decent woman. Which of course they won't. Who possibly could be good enough? Oh yes and I … gulp … despair at the prospect of always being The Mother-in-Law. But hang on a minute. On the plus side, for the moment at least, I’m mercifully spared from the horrors of Disney princess fancy-dress outfits, crying and weeing plastic dollies and … ugh … Angelina Ballerina books. I'm not living in fear of the arrival of Bratz, Barbies and budding breasts. Teenage pregnancies. Crazy phone bills. Fights over my clothes. Or … worse … rejection of my clothes for being too frumpy and/or too big. Shudder, dismal prospect. Perhaps on balance then having a troupe of boys isn't such a raw deal. After all, I have three healthy, mostly-happy sons. The waistline is to some extent self-inflicted. S clings to me lovingly even if he can't address me by name yet. And, well, I'm giving the best mummy in the world thing my best shot and you can't say fairer than that. That said, no matter how hard I try, there's one thing that'd evade even the bestest mummy imaginable: how to soften the blow of life's most monumental downer. Think back to discovering that Father Christmas doesn’t exist. Now that's what I call disappointment. (Weeps.) |
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