A YANK IN OZ: Naked truth of kids growing up
WELL, it's happened. I blinked and my kids are growing up.
Today's the day my eldest daughter finally laughed and covered her eyes when I walked out in my birthday suit. And it's not like it's a bad birthday suit. It may need a touch of ironing and some de-linting, but gravity hasn't won yet.
See, one day you're the coolest mum out there, incapable of doing any wrong in their eyes, and the next day you're lame and burning their retinas with your nakedness.
Look, it's not like I run around the house like some sort of hippy, unless you count the time I staged a sit-in to protest the over-usage of the toilet paper. For those of you without kids, the kid measurement of bum-to-toilet paper-square ratio is somewhere around 1:47, give or take. Two things I go through faster than anything in my house is patience and toilet paper. I'm pretty sure I could build a replica Taj Majal with the cardboard rolls left over every week.
But suddenly our little tribal community has been changed by the proverbial apple from the tree of knowledge, and mum has to start rugging up.
You would think after 11 years of seeing me half-dressed, running down the hallway, cold toast in one hand, keys in the other yelling, "Where's my bra?” she would be desensitised to it by now.
The other daughter still seems to be somewhat oblivious to all of this, but she hasn't quite hit the "my hair is stupid and you don't understand me at all” stage yet, otherwise known as puberty.
My son doesn't give a hoot, preferring most of the time to go free willy himself. He has however started to clue in that, for reasons unknown to him, that he's intrigued by what goes in my bra.
This preoccupation continues on into adulthood where grown men are equally fascinated and get the same goofy grin as my five-year-old.
So, because having my naked body laughed at wasn't the best start to my day, I explained to my daughter that sometimes in life we just have to deal with things.
Like when I wiped her bum for the first few years of her life and probably longer than most since she was "afraid of the toilet” until she was five.
Or when I spent 30 long, foodless hours in labour just to give birth to her.
I can forgive the labour pains, but no food? That's a toughie. And probably the worst thing were the innumerable amount of years I spent not watching what I wanted to on TV to let her watch Dora the Explorer and Maisy Mouse.
I'm pretty sure those theme songs could be used in wartime to get the enemy to confess all secrets.
"I'll tell you anything, just please, NO MORE DORA!”
So, if you'll excuse me, I have to find some socks to wear with my thongs and bum bag when I drop her at school.
Point and match.