Hear that trundling noise? That’s a bandwagon shooting past before I had a chance to jump on it.
Given that I’m prone to enthusiastically embracing superfluous trends, I’m gutted that there’s now a veritable feast of modern celebrations and traditions that I missed, due to being born too close to the era when dinosaurs ruled the earth.
There’s the primary school prom party. I’m not saying that I agree with spending £500 on a kiddie Gucci party frock and transporting your offspring to a school dance by helicopter, but it beats my last day of school which consisted of blowing 50p on Refresher bars in the tuck shop and murdering Abba’s ‘Knowing Me Knowing You’ in the class talent show. I came last.
There was no high school prom, either. Just a disco in the gym hall, where the static electricity caused by dancing to an Adam Ant song while wearing a taffeta puffball skirt almost resulted in spontaneous combustion of the thighs. Then I missed the half-time sandwiches because I was outside snogging my boyfriend, demonstrating potential sporting prowess should the Olympic Committee ever decide to introduce a new endurance event called the Prolonged Lip Lock.
However, the area in which I really feel cheated of celebratory activity is the whole pregnancy/baby period. I gave birth to my youngest eleven years ago. Back then, you announced you were pregnant and then there was a lull until the baby was born and everyone you’ve ever known appeared at the door clutching a box of Pampers and a selection of hand-knitted accoutrements.
These days, there’s barely time to squeeze all the new traditions into a nine-month time frame.
The latest pregnancy celebratory occasion is the ‘sex-reveal’ party. In the old days, that term was more concerned with the conception, and was conducted by a kiss-and-tell opportunist in a Sunday newspaper.
Now it involves a large cake, with icing that is either blue or pink to announce the gender of the babe.
Hot on the booteed heels of that shindig comes the obligatory baby shower.
And in the name of Demi Moore’s private bits, that’s followed by the tastefully done ‘naked and pregnant’ pics. Sorry, I had to stop to shudder there at the thought of flashing my nuddy bod. If I have to follow in Demi’s footsteps, I’d rather opt for engaging Bruce Willis in my specialist event, the Prolonged Lip Lock.
But my biggest regret? Missing out on the best new tradition of all – The Push Present. Yep, apparently menfolk now stump up for a token of appreciation to reward new mammas for giving birth. As with most ridiculously indulgent trends, it was born on Planet Celebrity. Mariah Carey got diamond earrings. Nicole Kidman got a £100,000 necklace. Marc Anthony presented Jennifer Lopez with earrings that cost £2 million. Kanye West just lavished Kim Kardashian with a ring that cost over half a million quid. And it seems us commoners can at least expect the other half to do a quick trolley dash round H. Samuel.
Shallow it may be, but I’m seething with the injustice of missing out on a bit of bling.
Dear husband, I know we’re eleven years down the line and that stable door is well and truly shut, but can I have a wee retrospective trinket please?
Just think of the positive impact that it would have on our lives. It would be a beautiful acknowledgement of that special day. It would be a fitting thanks for all that exertion. And I could shove it on eBay when we need to raise funds for the school prom helicopter.