So we've relocated and are doing our best to settle (the thousand-meaning word). An important step is school, very important, not the a, b, c's and one, two, threes, it's all about mom, the screwdriver and the plastic sheeting waiting on the kitchen floor.
We finally parted company after nine weeks of 24/7; SA winter holidays run directly into the start of UK summer holidays. But we were all still alive, talking to each other and even snuggling in the morning.
After leaving one at school and one at playgroup I suddenly felt like a deer in the headlights, I wanted then back ... and then I came to my senses, tootled off home for plunge coffee and more wondering what to do with myself.
School's a hit until I'm hit with a birthday party invitation. Grossly unfair – day three: don't know the boy, don't know the parents and will need SatNav to find venue. I rearrange my attitude: a party is good, it's an opportunity for our son to make friends, to socialize, so I message the mom and ask what her darling is 'into'. "Spiderman, or anyfing Marvel." I twitch, roll my shoulders and then, roll them again; but I'm being open-friendly-receptive mum.
I find the bus and the toy shop. I ask, but no Spiderman, no Batman no, wait a second, we have a puzzle. Excellent, checks both my boxes (educational and Marvel) plus it's £5 and I have a £4 voucher. Wrapping paper was £3.50.
All very exciting, our son has chosen his outfit himself and is looking suave. We arrive, as one does, to find a gargantuan Spiderman jumping castle in the community hall and spot the birthday boy, who spots us, runs up, snatches his gift and runs away. The mum comes over, "Sorry, he's really shy." But my mind had moved on, uncommon is this type of scenario.
You see, I have found the most intriguing species, it is not concerned with its shape or size, only with the size of the garment it is wearing. If it wears an 8 it must therefore be an 8. Hence, this species spends a considerable amount of time, as it pauses or stops in its perambulations in pulling UP the bottom garment and then pulling DOWN the top garment, over what is frighteningly common, a large expanse of not-insignificant lumpy posterior. The top garment is in itself note worthy. Thin shoulder straps, low necklines, stretchy fabric and the requisite size 8. By the laws of science if the pulled down to cover one area, it must reveal another.
That was the mum; and the dad seemed like a pretty bulk standard, "Yea, Yea!" kinda guy so I took my seat along the wall and smiled to my left and right. On my right was a nice mum who was timing her party shift. She does half, her husband does half. He came in reeking of the nicotine he needs to get him through, I can't say if it was the two at a time fags or a medical condition but his eyes bulged and conversation was tricky, much like conversation with my husband, you start talking and just at the point when you don't want to have to say it again, they turn and say, "I'm sorry, what?"
So I turned to my left. Safer ground, women. A kind, friendly mum introduces herself and me and I learn who their children are; the most precocious little girl belongs to the mum trying to look like Maria Carey, her bum wins out though and there's a girl who looks just like Abigail Breslin in the role of Little Miss Sunshine.
Time is ticking by and I'm starting to lean ever closer to the right to imbibe a little nicotine when the left-hand mum say, "Your son's very tall for his age. Five is it?" I say yes and she says, "Well, you're quite tall."
Bless her, not for a minute did she assume that he is adopted. She made no assumption.
Their bums may be lumpy, they may be tattooed from head to foot with blue hair (and they really are) but her first impression, whether conscious or not, was that he was my biological child. And why wouldn't she? My husband wasn't there.
So perhaps I need to stop running and spend more time on the couch watching Eastenders eating junk.
