It appears that an increasing number of women are spending time and energy planning what to wear to do the school run and that there's now such a thing as competitive school gate dressing.
I'm not the slightest bit surprised. The school gate has to be one of the most competitive places you can find yourself as a woman. Just imagine what it must be like at the London school where the children of supermodels Claudia Schiffer and Elle McPherson are pupils, who in their right mind would even attempt to compete sartorially with the blonde bombshell and The Body?
Thankfully I no longer have to accompany son number two to school, he jettisoned me as soon as he reasonably could, probably after the time I dropped him off with a mac barely covering my nightie, bright red lippie, sunnies and stilleto heeled boots. (Yes, I'd taken hours planning that outfit the night before, obviously....)
I knew that as an older mum, having had son no two at 37, I stood out like a sore thumb. Added to that, not coming from round here, I had a 'posh' accent and even worse, I work. Three strikes and I was out. The competition here doesn't seem to focus so much on what you wear (although there were definite nudges when I turned up with a Mulberry bag) but on how good a mother the playground mafia considers you to be and seems to split into two camps, those mums who work and those who don't. Once they found out I'd had two planned caesareans (no I'm not too posh to push but one breech and one enormous baby), bottle fed (sorry, but I'm not United Dairies), and my boys went to nursery, I was a dead duck, destined never to be invited to the NCT (National Childbirth Trust) coffee morning.
Each to their own I say and it's never bothered me that I'm obviously regarded as a dead loss in the mothering stakes by a lot of the buggy brigade. These are the women who must camp out overnight to make sure they are bang in the middle of the front row every year for the Nativity (I've always left it so late to get tickets that I'm jammed in at the side next to the 'lively' child who has been given the wooden blocks to play, loudly); the ones who always go on the school trips as the parent helper; who turn up with a beautifully home made spread for the sports day picnic; who jam up the entrance to the classroom at 8.45am every morning because they just have to talk to the teacher (making us working women late for work yet again); who spend days hand sewing outfits for every theme day while the rest of us persuade our kids that a superhero outfit is spot on for Victorian day with a few tweaks here and there.
Occasionally though we hopeless cases do have the last laugh. Son number two's school asked the children to dress up for a Christmas party. As usual our contribution was cobbled together at the last minute after I finally managed to persuade son number two that I might well be wrong but I really didn't recall there being a bare chested wrestler in the manger, and involved the old fail-safe, the dressing gown and tea towel. One of the playground mafia mums had clearly spent hours and a fair amount of money creating a Christmas tree from foam that she'd painted a spruce green, complete with working fairy lights and baubles. It was a work of art and she knew it. Unfortunately for her, her offspring didn't agree, threw an absolute tantrum and refused to wear it. Yes I know it's petty and I should know better and be ashamed of myself but I couldn't help but snigger.
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