All my own work

There’s a moment at school pick up time that all parents dread. Home time has begun like any other, everyone smiling awkwardly at each other as we wait for our children to be released. The door opens and a look of abject fear passes on all our faces as the teacher appears with a gargantuan junk model. Everyone is thinking the same thing, "please god don’t let that monster sculpture be coming home with me". An audible sigh of relief can be heard amongst the crowd as some poor woman attempts to balance a creation the size of a block of flats on the top of her buggy, to screaming protests from the toddler within, while older sibling, the proud sculptor, explains that its his chocolate sorting machine and has to have pride of place in the home forevermore. Everyone else smiles at her sympathetically, while thinking “thank fuck for that.”

But you’ve got to admire the kid’s creativity. And at least they made them themselves.

The trouble with school is there are far too many opportunities for parents to elbow their kids aside and flex their own creative muscles. And the most irritating thing to me is that schools allow this to go on.

There was a pumpkin carving competition a few weeks ago at school. Being new to the whole “school mum” thing, I presumed this was something for older children to enter. And given that son number one has only just turned five and can barely get out of bed without giving himself a black eye, handing him a pumpkin and a sharp carving device could only have resulted in yet another trip to A&E. So I had expected lots of crudely carved pumpkins, scary only when you consider the danger of a seven year old wielding a paring knife. Imagine my surprise to find that the majority of the entries were beautifully carved examples, which would not have looked out of place at an elaborate Autumnal wedding (I can spot a beautiful pumpkin because I have carved pumpkins for an Autumnal wedding). Surely a seven year old didn’t do that?

I am torn between feeling incredibly miffed that I hadn’t been informed that this type of thing goes on (the man and me are expert pumpkin carvers and would have thrashed the competition), and my belief that parents should not be allowed to help children with this kind of thing.

It just seems so unfair that the children of mothers like me, who believe that children’s competition entries should be all their own work, are competing against competitive mothers who wait for child to go to bed before getting out the glue gun and doing an online Hobbycraft order totalling a mortgage payment. The crafty (in both senses of the word) mums always win, leaving the kids who have entered their own creations heartbroken.

Thankfully I have yet to experience this myself but other mums have told of five year olds being given elaborate projects to do as homework. Most five year olds can barely write their own names, yet are expected to produce a project detailing the lifecycle of a volcano. But like the dedicated parents we are, most people will gamely stay up till 3am to complete a project for their child. Please tell me that the teachers in charge of our children’s early education are clever enough to be aware of this? And don’t they realise that a) having parents completing pupil’s projects is completely defeating the object of setting the task in the first place and b) parents have far better things to do that sit up half the night printing out pictures and ripping scientific explanations off Wikipedia?

On principle, I have told myself that I will never do a project or competition entry for either of my children. But when I saw those beautiful pumpkins I could feel my resolve weakening. How easy would it be to slip into competitive mum mode and show off how creative I can be with the junk modelling when I really set my mind to it? And I do love a good project. I can understand why people do it, I really can.

Yesterday I got a letter home about the Christmas Fayre, and there was an invitation to enter a homemade cake. The letter specifically said “Dear Parents” and the invitation to enter a cake did not mention children at all, so I may have found my opportunity to shine without compromising my principles. Not one to be competitive usually, I like to think I am the queen of cakes round here and this could be my chance to earn and defend my crown. There might just be a new competitive mummy in town. And I won’t be passing it off as my son’s cake, I want all the credit for this one thank you very much.

Keeping up appearances

You’ve got to feel sorry for celebrities sometimes. Being followed and papped at every available opportunity can’t be much fun (although the money and the celebrity friends make up for it a bit, no doubt).

Poor old Kelly Clarkson got a load of stick about a month ago for going out without any makeup on. Admittedly she looked nothing like the Kelly Clarkson we know, in fact you’d be forgiven for walking straight past her, she looked like a bit like Sonia from Eastenders, aged 12. But to me, she still looked lovely and fresh and clean, although not as glamorous as you would expect of a celebrity.

My problem is that as much as I love to wear makeup and make an effort to look groomed, quite often I just forget. I went to Sainsbury yesterday and realised when I got home that I had a blob of something as yet unidentified in my hair (could’ve been pumpkin soup, could’ve been treacle, who knows), I was too busy remembering to write porridge oats on my list that I just didn’t think to look in the mirror before I left. Epic fail.

But at least I didn’t run into anyone I knew, and at least there was no one waiting to take a picture from a highly unflattering angle and put it in the paper, just a funny look from the check out girl which didn’t click until I got home and looked in the mirror.

Personal grooming has taken a noticeable dip since having children, particularly the second time around. I have two other people‘s appearance and well being to consider before my own so rarely get around to myself. I’d love to have the time to put on a full face of makeup and do my hair everyday, but mostly a swipe of mascara has to suffice.

As a result of repeatedly over zealous playtime with his brother and friends, son number one has spent the last year or so with a perpetual black eye. I took him to casualty last weekend because he had a lump on it that hadn’t gone down for 2 weeks. It turned out to be a haematoma, a sack of blood surrounding a bruise, commonly found on boxers. It came just in time for his first ever school photo, so at least he had a nice big shiner for that. He is also a picker. He’s had a bite on his face for nearly 6 months that he won’t stop picking, I keep warning him that he’ll have a hole in his face if he doesn’t let it heal, and he stops, but I know for a fact he picks it when I’m not looking. He also has massive hair, rarely brushed, he’s a standard five year old ragamuffin.

I don’t do ironing as a rule, I just can’t see the point, but now that son number one is at proper school, with his persistent black eye and huge hair, I worry that he will have “sloppy appearance” forever and indelibly marked on his school file. So I now find myself joining the ranks of the other mothers who spend Sunday morning ironing school uniform, hoping that a crisp trouser crease will detract from his otherwise unkempt appearance.

I tell myself that I don’t care about what people think, and appearances don’t matter, it’s what’s inside that counts, but we all know that most people don’t think like that, as the media interest surrounding Kelly Clarkson’s naked face has proved.

It’s like with the house. I love my house to be clean and tidy, I’d love it to be like that all the time, but the sheer effort it takes just to keep on top of the marmite smears on the curtains and bodily fluids dripping out of the sides of nappies on to the floor is more than enough. That extra level of cleanliness and neatness eludes me. It lacks polish, as do I.

One day I will work out how some people manage to keep a perfect house, have ironed, scab free children AND a full face of makeup before 830am (there must be some secret to it) but until then people will just have to take me as they find me, sticky hair and all.