Bringing up Boys: His first Valentine

Be My Valentine

The Boy has delivered his first Valentine. His first proper Valentine. And I have mixed emotions.

Half of me is delighted. His Valentine is a wonderful girl, pretty and popular in the school and one with whom he has been friends from the very first day he arrived.

But.

But there is a bit of me that is absolutely terrified that he is going to get hurt and I don’t think I will ever be able to forgive his Valentine if she is the one who puts the boot in on his fragile dreams.

My imagination goes into overdrive and I picture him  tentatively handing over the card to his Valentine in front of the whole class all her fiends and all of his and opening up a whole can of worms on the teasing front. Can you imagine it?

Even if his valentine was pleased with the all the attention, all it would take is one other child to say something silly and the moment would be destroyed and instead of being happy The Boy’s Valentine would be humiliated and in turn furious with The Boy for putting her in such a situation. There would be ructions and I don't think my boy would recvover easily.

So knowing he was nervous of rejection and the whole Valentine thing in general I was hoping that he’d cop out and not go ahead with it; but he’s made of sterner stuff. Luckily I was able to persuade him not to give the valentine at school.

So it has been delivered into the hands of the girl's mother with strict instructions not to let her daughter have it until they are on their way skiing tonight for half term.

At least this way if he is rejected it can be done quietly and more importantly no one will know, at least not until after half term!

Humility and humiliation...I just love boys!

So we've opted for 50 Shades of Grey in Book Club and I thought I was going to have to order it via the Library and risk being spotted up to no good by the eternal busybodies that make up country life when a friend up and volunteered her copy.
"For God's sake take it, " she said. "I've got to get it out of the house before my husband sees what it really is all about. He says he's never seen me so engrossed and I just couldn't cope if he knew. It was bad enough when he caught me reading Twilight!"
I know that feeling. There are some things you just don't want your other half knowing about you. Sod stretch marks and VPL and the fact that you only shave to your knees if they knew what you read...well that's getting just too personal. I don't care that I have been married to him for nigh on 13 years I don't like any censure when I read. I don't like people....
Knowing.
When I lived in London I couldn't read on the Tube not because most of the time I found myself squashed up against a stranger's nether regions or else stuffed under their arm pit, it was because I didn't want them to know too much about me or to judge me in any way.
So when I was offered the loan of the book I grabbed at the chance. I knew the book would be delivered to me discreetly and no one would be any the wiser.
BUT
I hadn't reckoned on my youngest or his newly found reading skills...
My lovely friend had popped the infamous book in Bog Boy's book bag for me to collect at the end of the day. I was waving to him merrily as he came out of class when I noticed him delve into the bag.
Everything went into slow motion.
I knew what he was about to do right there in the middle of the school yard where everyone could see.
"Mum," he yelled, his pure young voice ringing out securing everyone's attention as can only happen when you desperately want to hide. "What's this in my book bag?"
He took the tome out and started to wave it about for all to see.
I struggled to get to him through the hordes of children impeding my way.
"Just a book Darling for Mummy pop it back in your book bag..."
"It's called 50 Shades of Grey," he hollered, "What's it about...?"
Ah yes indeed...I cast a furtive and slightly panicky look round. It's funny how you can see immediately those in the know and can read exactly what they think from their faces.
There were a few too many knowing smirks as I hastily grabbed the book, face aflame and stuffed it into my hand bag.
Bang goes any pretence at subtlety and bang goes my previously spotless reputation...so looking forward to tomorrow morning's drop off!

 

Retail therapy: don't knock it

OH. MY. GOD. I have a waist! It’s brilliant. I’ve not had a waist for years and now it’s there. I can’t tell you the joy. I can actually go shopping for clothes again. You know clothes that are pretty and dare I even say it frivolous!

For years I have dreaded shopping for clothes and avoided it at all costs because invariably I would come home in tears. Every time I’d go in a shop I would see beautiful things and then try them on only for huge disappointment; those beautiful things did not look beautiful on me. It got to the stage that I just didn’t bother with things like skirts or dresses. I avoided all clothes that were short in the body as these would never cover my fat tummy and I avoided low slung jeans. Not for me the straight leg or slim fit.  Not for me a crop top or even a jumper that was not deliberately baggy. I craftily covered up my shortcomings with gillets, big jumpers and long shirts.

I dreaded the warm weather when people started to uncover. My legs certainly never got to see the light of day and as for me wearing a T-shirt please with my body! I used to say I didn’t feel the heat and would have the air con in the car at full blast so none of the Mummies at school would have a clue.

I blended into the background all 11st and 5ft 3 inches of me ashamed, saddened and ever so slightly envious of all those leggy things.  Those Size 12s and Size 10s who all looked so happy and pretty and ever so stylish.

I started to notice  my turkey neck and all those grey hairs as I became more and more critical of my looks or lack of them. And I felt old so very very old. Probably whay I decided to try ThinkingSlimmer. It has worked on my weight but although I could see it coming off I couldn’t see any changes so to speak…

So on Friday I got dressed in crumpled clothes and hid it all under a coat for my trip down to London for a lunch with work colleagues, a rare treat for me. I arrived an hour early so decided to have a look round the shops, a glutton for punishment.

I trip trapped my way to Hobbs on Regent Street, as in the distant past before children and before living in the countryside had taken its toll, Hobbs had served me well.

My heart sank a bit on entering but just as I was about to make a hasty retreat I looked at myself in the mirror and realised with a sudden horror how awful I looked. There was no way I could possibly go out to lunch looking like that!

A dilemma.

Humiliate myself in front of yet another load of unspeakably glamorous shop assistants or humiliate myself in front of my work colleagues.

I chose the former reckoning that if I did humiliate myself at least I would never ever have to confront the shop assistants ever again because the likelihood of me even setting foot again in Hobbs let alone the Regent Street store would be exceedingly slim if not impossible.

I was approached by a softly spoken lady asking if she could help me and she said it so sincerely and was so gentle that I blurted out my fears and begged her to help me. An outfit for lunch; for today.

But no short skirts above the knee…

I glanced dubiously at the serried rows of impossibly chic clothing. Rack upon rack of it and nothing looked comfortable and none of it looked remotely as if it would suit me.

I tried to enter in to the spirit of things and was offered clothes that were silent in soft grey and navy blue. No shouting these. Understated one might call them safe may be another word. And then my eye was caught by a little animal print top and a heavenly green skirt. I was expecting disaster but when I was taken into the changing room something amazing happened. I had a waist. It was really there and I didn’t look half as bad as I feared. I tried on a few more tops, things that clung to me accentuating my long forgotten form.

I ummed and awed.

Then I was shown a dress, a wrap-around animal print dress. Surely a step too far!

It felt like a bit of heaven. I stepped out of the changing room and had a look at myself in the large mirror on the shop floor. I put my hands on my hips and turned this way and that and out of the corner of my eye I spotted a fabulous bright green scarf. Grabbing it I draped it over my shoulders and took another look in the mirror. The image looked back at me and smiled and well it was perfect. I looked good. Really good.

I left the store feeling a million dollars, a lightness in my step that I had not felt in years. And do you know what: Retail therapy: don’t knock it….