Monday, November 24, 2008
swimming with my girl
“You know Ellie”,
asked my girl, though it wasn’t really a question
“her mother has had a boob job.”
I looked at her, a little dismayed, already right out of things in the yummy mummy stakes as it is, and I automatically covered mine protectively, lest she suggest I have a 'boob job' too.
“She came to pick up Ellie, and she came across the playground in her little pink top”
My heart is sinking already.
“And a brand new Prada bag.”
I am about to launch into one of my usual tirades about materialism and labels and whatawasteoftimeandmoneyhowvacuousapradabagismeaningless
“then I thought of last time you came and picked me up and came right into the school to find me and I watched YOU come across the playground in your little black smock and those long striped socks”
I am feeling weaker by the minute.
“…pulled up and your tights tucked into them. You had your usual face covered in charcoal and a green painty moustache. And blue paint up both arms.”
Ah, I think to myself. At the end of the day, those pretty, silly, safe, clean, slice-baking mothers with pert bosoms are the winners. Are affirmed. Not us filthy weirdo ones.
And then she continued.
“and I was thinking, I’m so glad that I have you as a mother, rather than an airhead with a boob job.”
She has sold her surfboard and bought a camera. She has made some lovely photos, and she does very much like comments on them. You might like to have a look.