Today, a parenting column got me down. And then I remembered – I don’t care.
Chocolate. Mud. Snot.
Tomato sauce. Paint. Blood.
Ice-cream. Fruit juice. Urine.
On occasion, my children have been known to appear in public splattered with any, possibly all, of these substances.
In my experience, little children are grubby, dirty, messy little people.
Show me a spotless child, with tidy hair and well-pressed clothes, and I’ll show you a kid who is not having any fun.
Case in point: North West at a fashion show.
At least, that was the justification running through my head when I read this today:
That was the headline on a post on a parenting site that nosied its way into my newsfeed this morning.
Yes, I’m a masochist, so I clicked. And…
The writer, who (standard disclaimer) I’m sure is a lovely woman doing her best – aren’t we all – took a few minutes to get stuck in to those amongst us who just haven’t got it together to keep our kids nice.
Those of us who might not have a change of clothes in our bags at all times, who might actually take our eyes of our children long enough to allow them to splash or stomp or roll in something.
Those of us who don’t follow our kid around the playground with a wet wipe and a hairbrush, ready to ensure they are Instagram-ready at all times.
And woe-betide anyone who isn’t constantly wiping their kid’s nose. Because that is the worst crime of all, a snotty-nosed child.
I read it. I felt bad. I couldn’t help it.
I should know better than to let other people’s parenting opinions colour my day (after all, I write them too, and what do I know?), but the thing is, my kids are grubby.