Drum rolls and trumpets please. This week’s top prize in the ‘Surveys That Tell Us Things We Already Know’ goes to… the academic bods who revealed that mums embarrass their kids. Seriously. Someone actually spent time and energy studying this. They could have saved themselves the bother and just phoned my boys.
My brood are under no illusion that their mother comes with a large dose of mortification.
Apparently, my pals and I doing our funky Tina Turner moves when Low the Elder performed ‘Proud Mary’ at a school concert put me firmly in the category of ‘pure beamer’.
Actually, I was already there. And not just for being forty-three and still using the word ‘funky’.
Shouting to ask him if he needed a hug after a dodgy tackle on the football pitch resulted in a beetroot face (his), rolling eyes (his) and weary mutterings of ‘She’s never coming here again.’
Sadly, the chronic shame wasn’t mollified by my defence that Cristiano Ronaldo’s mother probably did the same.
However, here comes payback.
Once upon a time, some deranged old crone with a penchant for monkey nuts came up with a way for children across the land to subject adults to excruciating psychological dread and anxiety.
Yes, brace yourselves for my annual rant about the hell that is Halloween – a festival with traditions that are up there on my peeves list somewhere between athlete’s foot and anything involving Lycra.
The jokes are painful. The current favourite for this weekend is: ‘What’s yellow and dangerous? A canary with a catapult.’
Then there are the two hours in which I get fifty-seven Harry Potters at the door, who look decidedly unimpressed when I hand over an apple and fun-size Milky Way. They then proceed to loiter on the doorstep in the hope that I’ll capitulate and supplement the nutritional treats with 50p.
Oh, and rumour has it that, in these days of oppressive Health and Safety, dooking for apples now requires the utilisation of a snorkel and a panic button.
But the bit that makes my teeth grind like Freddy Krueger’s nails on a blackboard is the pressure of producing the costumes. It’s one of those defining tests of motherhood. Result: epic fail.
According to reports this week, Tom and Katie Cruise spent $6,000 on little Suri’s fairy princess costume. Note to Tom – I’m available for adoption.
In our house, we take a slightly different approach.
‘Muuu-uuuum, can I be a kangaroo this year?’ asked Low the Younger.
A kangaroo. That fabled animal of witchery and wizardry.
Although, on the positive side, I sent up a prayer of thanks to the gods of fancy dress that it wasn’t a giraffe, because that would require tracking down a seriously long toilet roll tube.
Back to the kangaroo. Cue a frantic search on eBay for brown fake fur. The postman was just heaving five metres of hairy fabric to the door when my wee darling announced that he’d changed his mind and he now wanted to be Dracula.
R.I.P. Skippy.
Unfortunately, the fabric was non-refundable so some swift manoeuvring and readjustments were required, but I think – with the help of some adaptations and a few economies with the truth – I’ve pulled it off.
So if you meet us on Sunday, be kind with the monkey nuts. Laugh at the joke about the canary. But please, please don’t point out that vampires don’t tend to wear brown fake-fur coats, or Dracula will be on the phone to those researchers informing them of the latest thing his mother has done to embarrass him.