Last night it was all going swimmingly. School bags stuffed with weighty books. Pencil cases filled with all manner of twisty pens, crayons and rubbers. I even had the time to make sandwiches and get water bottles in the fridge and it wasn’t even six o’clock. This school year I am making an effort to think ahead and it seemed to be going to plan.
That was until one of my daughters pointed out that I had not labelled her pens and rulers (as instructed on the school letter home apparently). With no stickers in the house and the marker pen dry of ink, I reached for some bright red Chanel ‘Dragon Red’ nail varnish. A big red blob on each pencil and her initial painted on a big ruler and she was happy. It turns out that the nail varnish looks better on a pencil than my nails. Perhaps I should let Chanel know that.
Just before switching off each bedroom light I laid out uniforms, shoes and socks. Then I got to the final child’s room. The fashion obsessed one. Despite having the choice of four dresses and two skirts (all handed down from friends and family and in perfect condition) she had got there before me and laid out a skirt that was more like a belt in length. “You know that skirt is way to short don’t you?” I told her as she lay in bed. “No it isn’t” she replied. “Yes it is. You have others that are the perfect length” I fired back. “No I haven’t. I’m wearing it”. I closed the door and so stupidly and regretfully, sat down and watched two episodes of ‘The Wire’ (a birthday gift). Watching drug dealers and cops fighting it out in Baltimore was less stressful than dealing with my own daughter.
Morning came and the tiny five year old came down fully dressed, followed by his six year old sister who was also fully dressed (even if her tie was back to front and shoes on the wrong feet). I was able to spend a good ten minutes taking photos and absorbing the significant moment in front of me when I all changed. Our nine year old walked into the kitchen in a very short skirt. As she leant into the fridge to grab some milk, all I could see were her knickers. I don’t know if she is aware of Katie Price (aka Jordan) but she is the only other person on the planet who would consider a micro mini acceptable for a nine year old’s first day back at school.
I stood in silence. Trying hard to find the right angle at which to broach the subject. I turned on my heels and crept into my husband (only just stirring and needing a lie in after the excitement of The Wire the night before). “I’m going to need back up. Jordan is in the kitchen and refuses to wear anything longer then two inches in length”. He pulled a pillow over his head and groaned.
Heading back to the kitchen the youngest had put on a cycle helmet and asked, “Can I cycle to school?” Of course he could have done on any other day but I knew that the skirt horror would not be resolved easily and told him that we’d cycle tomorrow. “Can I go on my skateboard then?” he continued. It was all so simple to a five year old. You wake up. You eat breakfast. You go to school. You don’t wreck your mother’s head over school fashion statements. It is the joy of boys.
Back to Katie Price. I took a tape measure and quietly measured her. She was one hundred and forty centimetres tall. Reaching into her bedroom, I came back with a skirt. “See this? See how it says 140cms? Well that mean it is made to fit a girl of exactly your height”. She shovelled a spoonful of Weetabix into her mouth. “Don’t care. It’s horrible” she replied dribbling milk onto the tablecloth. Then her Dad came in.
“OK. Your choices are, take off the skirt that is too small or we’ll have no choice but to take it off for you. You have five minutes to decide” She continued eating ignoring us. Five minutes later yelling and crying she ran to her room. The other three children sat in the car waiting for me to take them in for their first day.
“Mum don’t say a thing,” said my eldest as Katie Price closed the front door and headed towards us. “What is she wearing?” I asked. “It’s called a compromise” she replied. The back door opened and still sniffling but holding her held high, my headstrong child sat down holding her high school musical bag and wearing her shiny new school shoes.
As she got out of the car at school I took a closer look at what she had on. It was a skirt just above the knee and familiar looking but I couldn’t place it. That was until she was a good ten metres ahead of me. She had dug out last year’s pinafore dress and yanked the whole thing down to make it into a skirt. The straps were flapping about under her cardigan but she didn’t care. It was her own creation not what I had chosen and that was all that mattered.
They all went in to their new teachers and I pressed my nose up against the junior infants window to see our youngest playing with sand. Cycling to school? Playing with sand? There’s no doubt he takes after the men in the family. As for our stubborn, rebellious, demanding diva of a daughter, she’s her mothers genes I’m afraid. Sorry teachers.
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