It’s awards season, so please step forward TV presenter, Helen Skelton, and collect your Gong for Services to Parental Moments of Mortification.
Helen revealed on Twitter this week that she and her nineteen-month-old son Ernie had been banished from a playgroup.
She wrote, ‘Worst day of my parenting life. Asked to leave after twenty mins. Screamed the place down…’
Helen, I share your pain, and can offer both good news and bad. The good news is that, on the grand scale of parenting episodes, this blip can be filed under ‘Things You’ll Laugh About When He’s Twenty-One’.
The bad news? Take a deep breath. Now exhale. Don’t be alarmed, but there will be many more ‘worst days’ to come.
When it comes to embarrassing moments, mistakes and mishaps, I think I’m probably into treble figures.
I once had to comfort-eat a box of Jaffa Cakes after my two-year-old wedged himself into a shoe display in a busy shop and yelled the place down when I attempted to dislodge him.
Then there was the day in M&S, when I was squatting down to peruse the bottom-shelf bras, and one of my bored wee guys did a runner towards me, leapt on my back and sent me sprawling, taking an entire section of push up balconettes with me.
Holidays were a minefield of maternal catastrophes. On a trip to Cyprus, I delivered a stern health and safety warning. ‘Do not, I repeat, DO NOT, run along the side of the pool. Promise?’
Six-year-old See-Me Bolt nodded obediently, then sprinted off, slipped and screeched all the way to Paphos A&E.
Other health and safety fails included my demonstration on how to properly use a fruit slicer, which all went a bit blood orange when I sheared the tip of my finger off. This was almost as smart as the day I attempted to teach them to safely use superglue and spent the next three hours trying to prise apart my thumbs.
And don’t even get me started on the profanities. Twenty-two junior Ronaldos were given a lesson in vocabulary when my seven-year-old super-striker missed a penalty kick and shouted, ‘Och for f***s sake’. When questioned, he explained, ‘But that’s what all Daddy’s team say when they miss a goal.’
Husband was swiftly relegated to the subs bench.
So Helen, from someone who’s been there, done that and got the beamer, please try to laugh it all off.
Because, in the blink of an eye, you might be facing the most tortuous of my parenting episodes so far – the moment my sixteen-year-old decided to leave home and venture off to follow his sporting ambitions. We discussed it, I agreed, hugged him and told him it’ll be great. And it will.
But the thought of letting him fly the nest already?
Pass the Jaffa Cakes because it doesn’t get much worse than that.