Blog Seven

"Could you make it funnier?"

One avid and vociferous reader of the blog has asked if I could make it more amusing. She feels, perhaps, that it has a tendency to be earnest. This very attentive reader happens to be my own mother. I think her comment reveals as much about her own parenting style as it does about my writing. So this blog, Mum, is for you. 

Over the last couple of years of being the parent of a dancer, I have developed several unexpected obsessions. These obsessions then lead to small but significant victories. Here is a list in ascending order of importance; the most urgent preoccupations come last:

• Laundry bags. In less politically correct times, we used to call these 'Chinese laundry bags'. Of course I now realise what an insult this is to the people in China and perhaps other countries, and even people who work in laundries. These 'shopping bags' - as the label now declares them to be called - are essential. At the end of term everything can be just thrown into them and sorted out at home. It means we can do the end of term clear-out in less than thirty minutes. It takes us three weeks to sort everything out once we get it all back, and the unpacking sprawls through every room in the house. But, at least we get out fast. I also have 'bag-envy' - noticing that some parents have desirable Kath Kitson manqué laundry bags. Ours are an uninspiring brown plastic plaid, and the zips are really crap. I'm never sure if the pound-shop deals with returns. 

• The fridge and the food cupboard. Since he has been away at ballet school, I can only assume that our son's body is in a permanent state of ketosis. There are two words which stop me in my tracks and send chilling dread through my nervous system: I'm hungry. We keep the following in stock at all times: salad - washed and chopped; pasta (two different types) - parboiled; hummus; chocolate; nut-and-seed bars; fresh fruit; dried fruit; nuts; seeds and more mozzarella than might supply every Pizza Express in the South East. Our bread is either rye, spelt, or ... wait for it ... kamut. Hovis just isn't an option. I'm sure that I have heard the toaster groan as the seventh slice of the day goes in. There is a serious side to this urgency; if he is not fed promptly, he suffers from a migraine. Hence the ninja speed at which we can produce a cooked meal at any time of the day or night. He tells us that he gets fed at school. I picture it as a Dickensian scene in which everyone is terrified to ask for more. Apparently, professional body-builders carb-load on one or two days of the week - as do ballet dancers in training. 

• Weekend packing. If everything has been packed for the week ahead by Saturday evening, I am almost ecstatic with joy - congratulating myself on being a text-book parent and wondering if any other ballet dads (or mums) might benefit from my wisdom. A more frequently visited reality is finishing the packing late on Sunday evening. Sadly, I am most often just chucking stuff into a case at 5.30am on a Monday morning, praying that I won't hear the words, "Have you seen my..."

• Risk management. We have become the caricatured parents of Horrid Henry. "No! You cannot skateboard / ski / ride a horse / go to the BMX track / go for a walk!" We worry constantly about injury - not in the ballet studio, he seems to be in really safe hands there - but in everyday life. I grin sheepishly in public spaces when I hear myself screaming "Be Careful! Watch out!" Only for other parents to turn around to see me warning my child about going down some steps. This is not helped by a talk I once attended which began with: Many Ballet careers have ended with a seemingly innocuous trip at the top of some stairs. I can't even stop worrying when he is in bed ... unless we move him into the bottom bunk. 

• Ballet socks. If an even number come out of the drier I am ecstatic. These thin white socks are made of a magic static-generating material. Once in the drier they will stick to anything. If an odd number comes out, it means that one might be stuck to one of my shirts and I am in danger of going to work with a sock attached to me all day. I then have to go through all the laundry and vigorously shake each item individually in the hope that the sock falls off. Of course, there is no guarantee that an even number of socks were put in the wash in the first place. Also, while counting an even number is a triumph, I still live in fear of setting off with two socks decorating the back of my shirt. 

Writing this has revealed to me that the socks are more important to me than health and safety. We learn something new every day. I'm not too ashamed; it's the truth after all.

If you fancy writing about your own obsessions and victories in the comment box below, it will help me feel less alone.


Next time, Mum, I'll be returning to my usual mawkish soul-searching self, as I talk about the pressure to be perfect.