Mummy Mardi Gras

We’re at it again.

 

Carnivalling.

 

Is that a word? My spell check says not.

 

But then Google wasn’t once.

 

Anyhow. We’re at it again.

 

Iota says they let her in because she’s a Mummy and she’s British.

 

I am too. It says so in my passport. Not the Mummy bit. Just the British.

 

Hat’s origins are a constant source of puzzlement to her. Once, once when she was at Real School, she was obliged, as part of a class project, to design a poster to illustrate her birthright.  Our finished product disappointed Hat; it did not, like the example provided by her teacher (who was from Brighton), indicate where Hat came from.   We knew which children were from Holland or England or Egypt or Tanzania because they had written in bold letters, ‘I AM FROM …’ and added a badly drawn flag by way of explanation.  All our effort did was illustrate that Hattie had a grandmother who must be very old (judging by all the sepia photographs I used – which taught me not to be a show-off) and a dead grandfather who used to ride a bicycle.   

 

‘Who’s that?’ she asked, indignantly as I stuck a photo of paternal grandfather onto our piece of card

 

‘That’s Grandad Simon’, I said, and then, gently, in reverent tone reserved for the departed, ‘he’s dead now’

 

‘No, he’s not’, she snorted, ‘he’s riding a bike’.

 

Hat’s teacher asked kind and interested questions about all the dead grandfathers and long deceased great-grandparents staring from liver-spotted images bearing testimony to lives spent in India, the Congo, East Africa. 

 

How exotic she remarked.  Hat didn’t think it was exotic.  She would rather have had a poster decorated like her teacher’s, with pictures of Brighton Pier, Cadbury’s chocolate, pink and white complexioned children.  And a Union Jack. 

 

Her passport, the same maroon and gold of my own, helps to ground her when our poster clearly did not.

 

Her big brother, though, would rather be Indian. Largely on account of Sub continent cricketing prestige I think.

 

And her sister insists she’s Australian. She has never been to Oz and she has not a single relative Down Under. But Australian she is. She says. At 15 I think I remember thinking I could be/do/have whatsoever I chose.

 

How glorious unsullied youth is.

 

So. Back to the British Bloggy Carnivalling Mummies.   If I had to select one this week it’s be Grit, a home-schooler (leaden phrase: makes me think of ugly shoes, tie-dye dresses and underarms that need depilation) like myself (who wears no shoes, has never worn a tie-dye dress in her life and whose underarms are baby smooth); Grit’s entertaining post puts happy pay to any lingering suspicions that parents who teach their own kids either take themselves too seriously or are too painfully worthy for words.

 

 

Go take a peek.

 

Then come dancing on the cyber streets. 

 

 

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7 Responses to “Mummy Mardi Gras”

  1. carol Says:

    You haven’t worn a tie-dye dress but I do remember a special tie-dye T-shirt that you used to wear!

  2. val Says:

    Hat and I have a similar problem then… i think its fairly common these days in the global village – we are scatterlings by now. She sounds great. am off to check Grits site. thanks

  3. Mozi Esme's Mommy Says:

    Wish I knew where I was from, too. And my daughter definitely doesn’t have a clue. But she’s not aware of borders yet, though, other than a place to stand in line forever in close quarters with lots of other sweaty people…

  4. Roberta Says:

    I just finished reading Grit. I laughed so hard I have tears!
    That part about sex on the kitchen table with the ironmonger and pots on their heads is to die for!

    Thanks!

  5. Iota Says:

    I like the idea of dancing on the cyber streets!

  6. Expat Mum Says:

    For some reason my daughter used to tell people she was born in Hong Kong. Given that I’m English and we live in the States, I suppose it could have been true, but no one in the family has ever been there!

  7. Mr Farty Says:

    Thanks for the link to Grit, she’s hilarious!

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