Infinite Critique

So I’m browsing through a magazine at my mate Rosie’s house.
It’s a kind of highbrow parenting mag that I’m not going to name because I’m sure they make enough money out of the very rich people who must be buying it, without me adding to their revenue. Not that I have anything against rich people…except that, erm, they have more money than me.

Anyway, it’s one of those magazines that is a window into another world, a world that in some ways I would love to be a part of - mainly in the having enough money to do what ever you want, whenever you want sort of way preferably.

But in another way, it kind of makes me feel a little bit ‘better’ than those who are nestled comfortably within it. You know, those who choose style over comfort, who never have a bad hair day, and who don’t have to get the kids to school, clean the house, walk the dog, do the washing or scrub the toilet, as they have a legion of staff to do all the dull, dirty and depressing stuff. (Ok. I admit, I do have someone who does the ironing, but I am married to him, and Mr B likes it, honest. It has nothing to do with him not trusting me to touch his shirts, and the fact he prefers just the one crease in his trousers. But otherwise we pretty much share the load and the kids help too if we bribe them with pocket money.)

As I drink my cuppa, I leaf through the pages with awe, yet also with a little smug smile.

Yes I love the cute kids furniture that costs more than my car and is probably better made.

Yes the designer baby clothes look ’simply dwahling’, but, to be honest, if it was in my house, the furniture would soon be covered in High School Musical II stickers and green pen, and the clothes wouldn’t last five minutes at the park, or even at the dinner table.

There is also something that doesn’t really ring true with the way the kids clothing is displayed. Modelled by picture perfect specimens with neatly coiffured hair, subtle, but not too subtle make up, and dressed in a homage to the forties, the girls look older than their years, tidy, twee, a bit scary. The boys are all freckles and missing teeth, but again they look too clean cut, characterless, manufactured. Yes, I know, it’s advertising, it’s selling an image, an ideal, aspirations, but do I want my 3 year old to look like Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca? I mean, she’s 3, she should look like a kid right? A bit messy, ruddy cheeks, healthy?

And would I want my 7 year old to allow herself to be dressed up like a forties cover girl and sit sedately in the front room all day sipping homemade lemonade and embroidering a lovely cushion cover for the sofa?

No I blooming well wouldn’t. I want Miss E to tell me what she likes or does not like to wear. I want Miss M to develop her own style, to run around outside and not have to worry about getting her designer duds dirty.

I don’t want a blooming spotlessly clean, perfectly primped and preened designer kid.
I want MY kids, in nice, normal clothes, make up free, slightly grubby and in occasional need of a tissue to get rid of the green gooey stuff that all kids model at least ten times a year.

Sighhh.

Ok, I’m almost done with the rant, except there’s just one more thing. As I close the magazine and put it down on the table, I notice the back page full of glossy ads. One in particular jumps out at me. It’s a photo of a gorgeous wooden cottage, complete with balcony, stable doors, neatly tiled roof and cute, perfectly set chimney. It sits serenely in a field of verdant green surrounded by blossom bowed trees, and backed with a perfect blue sky.

And I think, ‘that would be such a cool place to stay in for a holiday.’ I mean, it looks pricey, but sometimes these places have deals right? Or a bunch of us could go?

Then I read the ad.

It isn’t a holiday home.

It’s a kids playhouse.

Oh, my, God.