I was CONVINCED I’d never mother a girly girl. I was SURE any female offspring I produced would be a rough and tumble, dungaree-wearing, stone throwing, tree-climbing kind-a-gal. To a certain extent – she is. She loves getting messy. She loves dinosaurs and cars. She loves playing pirates – favouring Captain Hook over Tinkerbell any day.
However . . .
There’s a side to the Giblet that’s becoming more and more diva like. Girly beyond belief. To the extent that I now feel rather more like part of Mariah Carey’s entourage than a Bolton Mum of one. A side that makes getting out of the house in the morning harder than escaping Alcatraz.
“Right, common Grace, we need to go.”
“Oh wait Mummy – my sunglasses!”
“They’re on your head. Cummon Gibby, Mummy’s running late.”
“They’re diiiiiirty!” ***Bottom lips trembles precariously***
“RIGHT! FINE!” ***Half-heartedly polishes flower shaped pink sunglasses on skirt hem*** “Here you go. Now let’s go.”
“Thank you Mummy. Hold teddy please.”
“And hold Piglet.”
“We don’t need teddy AND Piglet, do we? Piglet wants to stay at home.”
“No he doesn’t.”
“Yes he does.”
“No he DOESN’T!”
***Pretends Piglet is talking and affects a high-pitched voice.*** “I’d like to stay at home please Grace!”
“Don’t be silly Piglet, Mummy will carry you to the car.”
“Ok ok ok ok but PLEASE let’s go now Grace, I will be late for work. PLEASE”
“Mummy where’s my handbag?”
“And my other bag?”
“You hold it please Mummy, ’cause I need to carry my other shoes too.”
***Deep breath. Take bag number two from her.*** “Ready?”
“Yes. Oh WAIT! My necklace! and my telescope!”
***Through gritted teeth*** “You’re wearing your necklace sweetheart, and your telescope is in your bag – see?”
Gibby checks that the string of fluorescent pink plastic tat suitably adorns her neck and inspects the telescope (told you she likes pirates) before finally . . . FINALLY . . . complying. She trips out the front door merrily and waits for me to open the car door for her. I follow, arms full of teddys, Piglets, more spare shoes and bags as well as my own work stuff. It’s tricky to juggle all of this and locking the front door takes a minute . . .
“Mummy common – you don’t want to be late!”
***Another deep breath.***
I throw everything in through the passenger car door, then wait an eternity whilst my little Mariah carefully places all her gubbins into the foot well before painstakingly slowly clambering into her seat.
I wonder if the following conversation has ever happened EVER in the entire history of getting-toddlers-out-the-house:
“Yes, ready. Let’s go Mummy.”
Please do let me know . . .