Tiger and I often go for a walk at about the same time Ballet Pickup is happening at the ballet school down the street.
What this means, essentially, is that our fairly working class street is transformed, for half an hour or so, into what I imagine Toorak in Melbourne looks like. Except without the mansions. Or swimming pools. Or tennis courts. In fact, only the cars and children are like Toorak - enormous, shiny, mega-designer-brand four wheel drives and little sprogs named Giselle and Camilla.
Oh, and the mothers.
By golly, *those* mothers.
Those mothers, in their uniforms of designer skinny jeans and Very Expensive riding boots and cashmere jumpers and puffy ski suit vests; their caramel-streaked hair (no doubt zhoushed by some Very Expensive colour specialist cum yogi in a temple in Tibet, while drinking Champagne From Actual Champagne and having crop circles made on their backs with little hot coconut shell thingies and their feet pedicured by ... llamas. Or something), tied back in sleek ponytails; their faces "nude" (i.e. smeared in Very Expensive Nude Makeup. Possibly made from caviar or similar).
Those mothers talking to their Little Princes and Princesses as if they were mentally-impaired guinea pigs with an aversion to voices louder than a VERY ANNOYING WHISPER.
Those mothers nearly running over me and Tiger in their STUPIDLY BIG CARS because, evidently, no child is important apart from THEIR child.
Those mothers telling those OTHER mothers about the giftedness / perfectness / robotness of their PERFECT ANDROID CHILDREN who, presumably, never throw tantrums, wee in the bath, pull their siblings' hair, think murderous thoughts about their mothers ...
Those mothers. By golly. Those mothers.
I am so flipping glad I am not one of them. I am so flipping glad Tiger is not an android child. When I look into our shared future, I see no big four wheel drive monstrosities, no puffy vests, no designer llama pedicures ...
I see a tiny house somewhere rural, with goats and chickens. I see martial arts lessons, so Tiger can be a superhero kicking serious baddie bum. I see not giving two actual hoots whether Tiger is more advanced in phonetics or calisthenics than Tarquin or Persephone. I see fun. And not Structured Play kind of fun. Messy, muddy, chaotic kind of fun.
The kind of fun *those* mothers could never have. Because it might ruin the cashmere.
And yes it might sound like I'm being smug or patronising, but I don't care. One of *those* mothers nearly squished me and my baby today in their stupid car. Another one refused to move her conversation out of the middle of the footpath, so Tiger and I didn't have to walk on to the road. Another one whisper-yelled at her poor little Princess, "Grace, remember, we don't skip in public. We walk. Don't we?"
Yes. Actually.
I'm sorry if it sounds like I'm being unkind about *those* mothers.
Actually, I'm not. Because they don't give two hoots about me. And that suits me just fine.
Because I don't want to be them. I like my life better.
It's messy and it's imperfect and it's flawed and it's LOVELY.
~ Love, Miss Cackle x
4 comments:
What if she wants to do ballet? Is it possible you're in as much danger of deciding what she will be as those mothers?
Anonymous: no danger at all. If Tiger just wants to dance, believe me, I'll do whatever I can to get her there. But it would be purely about fun. No pressure to perform, to win or to "look pretty". Her choice, and have fun or don't do it.
I will fully support Tiger if she wants to do ballet, or tap, or jazz, or bellydancing! This post wasn't meant to be anti-ballet and shouldn't be read that way. It was more an observational thing - those PARTICULAR mothers were pretty darn nasty. I'm sure all mothers whose daughters do ballet are not like this! Like I said, It's the bad ones you notice!!!
ahhh i love the new mothers who think they know best. perhaps give it a few years before criticising others.
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