Perky friggin' Mothers - dontcha just hate 'em?
I do. They are just so damn perky with their lot that I want to run over and pull their luscious pigtails out of their heads. Let me explain what they look like: they wear no make up, or at least look like they wear no make up BUT THEY STILL LOOK INCREDIBLE. Not a hint of tiredness, no circles so deep you grow potatoes in them, no weird sun spots, no stressed out vein threads, no lips torn apart through endless chewing. Nope, they are all milky skinned with a hint of rosebud cheeks, wide eyes framed by roadsweeper eyelashes and swooshy swishy hair 'just thrown up' into a perfect pony. They are tiny. I mean tiny. All eeny weeny waist and pert bum and clean sneakers and expensive jeans and a casual stripey top (I wear a lot of stripes but I don't do this look so well) - that looks like they 'just picked up this old thing' and they still look amazing. Gwynnie is their hero. All organic cooking and my kid likes sprouts (NO ONE LIKES SPROUTS, LEAST OF ALL KIDS) and everything so clean and wholesome that their kid's nappies only contain rose scented poo.
Now every thursday I go to a happy clappy class. Yes I do. Let's call it Clip Clop. The folk who run it are theatre types, whose careers maybe haven't panned out to plan and instead of a bit part on Casualty, they are childrens' entertainers. They are savvy enough to realise there is far more gold in the happy clappy class hills than there is pretending to have a stomach ulcer and then bleeding from the eyes for one episode. Anyway, I go there with a good friend who is a nanny and she pisses herself at the looks on my face as I cope with the 'singing' and all the perky fucking mothers.
I sing like a man. I sound like cat dying slowly. A cat with a man's voice. It aint good. Mercifully the singing bit only lasts about 3 minutes - feels like 30 - and then the actor folk to their bit and sing so we may all be spared. Of course the PMs - they keep on a singing! Oh yes, they join in. Sroglette and I don't - although yesterday she let go of my hand and wandered up to the front and got amongst the singing throng. I am sure she was just looking for the end of play obligatory biscuit that they serve, but still, she has started to enjoy it, even though she walked to the door three times and pointed to leaving. Like Mother, like daughter.
The biggest PM there is all bright scarves and singalong fun. She has a daughter called Olivia who has a permanent dummy in her mouth, but the most exquisite shoe collection a child could ever want. Or indeed an adult. Head PM looks like she has it all together, with her virgin white converse and her perfect highlights and yes, I admit, these folk make me feel so inadequate - as I never ever am as scrubbed and shiny and happy clappy as they are. Whilst surviving Clip Clop though I fake perky. I march with the grand old duke of York, I hunker down and shake my rattle for the band moments and I swing Sproglette around like a sack of spuds as we 'hunt for fishes' and sing the hokey kokey. It is the longest 45 minutes of my week. A smear test goes quicker. Come to think of it I'd rather have 45 minutes with a swab swishing around than have to deal with the swishy ponytail brigade, but hey, the kid seems to dig it so I have to keep going. Let's all clap along.... 'If you're happy and you know it, shout we are.... WE ARE!!!!'