A place for everything and everything in its place. This is not the mantra I live by.
I always knew I wanted children, three as it turned out, though I’d have been happy with four, five. If I’d started in my twenties I might have a whole football team by now. But why did no one ever sit me down and say, look love, a word of advice. You don’t really have the right skill set for this.
It’s the uniforms that kill me. Not just the washing them and getting sorted for Monday morning. But the extra curricular ones. The finding of the Chelsea strip for Thursday night. The location of the ballet kit for Monday, the creation of buns held by hairpins, not to mention the last minute sewing on of elastic on ballet shoes. Why can’t they come ready made? Why can’t you get self-adhesive badges?
Our youngest turns out to be a joiner-inner (God knows where he gets it from).
Stagecoach Saturdays, Cubs Tuesdays, football Thursdays. I’ve said no to rugby on Sundays for obvious reasons.
After two successive Saturdays when I had to send my husband screaming into Asda for black joggers before the Stagecoach drop off – 10am – he took control of the Stagecoach uniform. It has a secret hiding place and we’re all very thankful for that.
When my youngest son joined cubs recently the first thing my husband said was: ‘You do know we’re going to lose the woggle, don’t you?’
Woggle? A whole new language to learn. And in my enthusiasm for his boy scout spirit I’d entirely forgotten about the sewing on of badges.
Well Tuesday has rolled around again, I’ve sewed on his housekeeping badge (housekeeping, my arse) and now as I lay out his newly washed, newly sewn jumper I realise both the neckerchief and the woggle are missing. I’ve searched the house, his bedroom, the laundry room, the baskets, under the beds, in the beds, I’ve even looked in the garden. I give up. Cubs has broken me.