Parenting: Mum’s the word

YOUNGEST Child has a new school skirt. I didn’t want to buy it but she wore me down in the supermarket.

“That’s nice,” she said.

“Won’t last five minutes. You could spit peas through it.”

“I like the bow on the belt. Pleeeeeease.”

“Oh for God’s sake, all right.”

“Love you mummy.”

On its first day on she arrives home in a different skirt. I’m distracted because my friends the School Inspector and Primary Teacher are round with their two-year-old twins.

“Where’s your new skirt?”

“Mutter, mutter.”

“What?” I bark, busy making tea.

“Mutter, mutter, mutter.” She leans against the Primary Teacher who nods sympathetically and translates: “She says it ripped up the back. Aw, what a shame. Everyone nearly saw her pants.”

“Ha! Told you,” I say. “Well, just wear the one you came home in tomorrow.”

“She can’t,” says the Teacher.

“Why not?” I bellow.

“It’s the Spare Skirt,” says the Teacher. “She’ll be dead meat. It’s like getting the Spare Pants. No one ever forgets.”

Youngest clings to her, grateful, glaring at me.

Later I find the balled-up skirt, ripped from hem to waist. “I’m sorry I was such a cold-hearted bitch, sweetie,” I say.

“S’OK,” she says. “But if you die, can Primary Teacher and School Inspector adopt me?”