EVERY Saturday morning during term time, I arise at an ungodly hour to bring the young master to drama class.
By design, my friend Molly's daughter Kate is in the same class, and, as soon as we've pushed our respective children through the door of the parish hall, Molly and I sprint to the local garage for coffee. By the time we get there and queue up for our caffeinated beverages there's little time to actually drink them (without risking second-degree burns to the tongue), but we don't care. The coffee isn't the important part -- it's being child-free for three-quarters of an hour that matters.
his week, as we approached the garage Molly indicated a woman paying for petrol and muttered, "I bet she's a good mother."
The woman was wearing the "good mother" uniform -- knee-high boots with a wedge heel (not too high), an A-line denim skirt and a thin-knit polo neck sweater topped by a sleeveless gilet (puffy-jacket). I tried this get-up once, back in the days when I was attempting to at least look the part. I cannot even begin to describe how ridiculous I looked. if I'd gone out in oversized spotted pants, too-big shoes and a red nose I would have appeared less ludicrous.
The woman's little daughter was equally well turned out and had her hair in some sort of intricate plaits that, by rights, only a qualified hairdresser should be able to do.
What time do "good mothers" get up at? I rise in the small hours yet I still don't have time to attend to my own coiffure, let alone create a "look" for my child. There's obviously some secret to "good mothering" and I'd like to be let in on it.
Sunday Indo Living