My husband sent me a picture this week that nearly gave me a panic attack. Was it of our latest electricity bill? No. The state of the flat after I left him and our daughter alone for two days while I went to Barcelona? No. In fact, it was a photo of my daughter having a fabulous time in the playground. The only problem was, in the photo she was wearing a CHRISTMAS dress covered in festive slogans (in October!) and sporting a hair clip arrangement that can only be described as demented.
WTAF.
I’d be stressed enough knowing hubby dearest simply took her out to the park like this. But in fact, my trip to Spain coincided with my daughter’s first ever ballet lesson, and if ever there was an environment where you just know all the little darlings are going to be groomed to perfection, it’s a Wandsworth ballet class.
The thought that my daughter had marched into a room full of tutu-wearing princesses looking like a complete weirdo left me hyper-ventilating. Immediately I was sending frantic messages to my husband asking why, why, WHY he had let this happen.
My friend Jo, who was in Barcelona with me, couldn’t see the problem. “But she had fun right?” she asked me.
“Yes, but look at her!” was my response. “What will people think?”
Ah, that age old question. It’s the one I asked myself when I took my daughter to Baby Sensory classes, where other babies obligingly spent the whole session cooing at lights and being tickled by feathers, while my little rebel crawled around eating random fluff off the floor and determinedly trying to steal the teacher’s iPad. It’s the question I’ve asked myself in the playground, when other parents turn up with small Tupperware boxes full of carrot sticks, beakers full of sugar-free squash and clothing options for all weathers, while I stealthily use my sleeve as a makeshift baby wipe. The feeling peaked when I took my then 18-month-old baby swimming and forgot both towels and a nappy for afterwards. Of course I only realised this after stripping our cozzies off, meaning I had to stand pleading with the other (much more organised) swimming class mums while protecting my last shred of dignity with a mangy changing room curtain.
Cut back to Barcelona’s Park Güell where I was losing it over the photo. Deep down I knew Jo was right - it didn’t really matter if my daughter looked like she’d just fallen through a Christmas tree backwards, as long as she was having fun. And really, if any of the other parents were casting their judgement on a two-year-old’s fashion choices, then fuck ‘em.
Like most things, my anxiety around my daughter not looking the part is much more about my own feelings than hers. She didn’t give a crap about fitting in, but I do. I explored this very thing in an article I wrote for You magazine last month about my obsession with shopping. It involved speaking to a money therapist, who identified a desire to “fit in” as a huge driver in my need for the “right” clothes. Snippet below:
I was born and grew up in Wales with English parents, which meant I was the only one with an English (aka ‘posh’) accent in school and was acutely aware of sticking out. It makes sense, then, that I’d place a huge amount of value on having the ‘right’ clothes, and perhaps this subconscious obsession with fitting in has never quite left me.
It might not have left me, but I can’t let it impact my kid. Really, the whole thing is a good reminder not to project my own weird issues onto my daughter. Although I have my limits - the hair clips will not, I repeat not, be making an appearance at next week’s ballet class.
💗