Salons, shakes and six-year-olds

I’ve spent a long time envisioning girlie days I’d have with my daughter once she hit her teens. Boy-free days where we’d shop, have lunch and catch up with each other. I say ‘catch up’  because I hear teens don’t spend much time at home and as my job necessitates a lot of travel, I presumed the days in question would need to be arranged via PA or something. But what do I know?

I’ve put a lot of thought into these excursions because as a mum I feel I fall down in certain areas. Areas which never bothered me until I was handed a mewling baby girl and asked how it felt to be a mum. Terrifying, if you must know.

I can’t braid hair, I find fairytales gag-inducing and the only thing I’ve ever made in the kitchen was a mess.

 

“What will I do with her”, I thought in panic. I was plagued with flashbacks of my own childhood where my mum would bake with us, spend hours brushing and French-plaiting our hair and provide us with fabric and assorted dress-making equipment so we could make ‘gowns’ for our dolls.

“Why can’t I be more like my mum?”, I fretted to my daughter’s dad on more than one occasion.

“Because your mum didn’t work full-time and you have different interests” He’s right, of course, but it doesn’t help.

I told anyone who’d listen during my first pregnancy that despite being allowed entry into the club known as ‘Motherhood,’ I wanted to continue to focus on my career and maintain a certain sense of self and having achieved those goals, six years on, I feel slightly deflated. Why couldn’t I have found a balance? I could have continued working ten hour days and squeezed a few YouTube baking tutorials in during my coffee break….couldn’t I?

Despite trying to hide it, I’m certain she has picked up on the stress most of her school events cause me. They’re the kind of event my mother would have excelled at; bake-sales, darn-with-your-daughter days (no, seriously) and so on. Sometimes I feel I enrolled in her in a school straight out an Enid Blyton book.

So because these areas require room for improvement, I have poured a huge amount of energy into planning the mummy/daughter events I’d actually be good at. Shopping, eating (not baking) cake and pampering ourselves. And then in one less-than-rational, extremely sleep-deprived moment, I thought: “Why am I waiting until her teens for this?”

And that is how I found myself assuring my husband that a morning in the salon with my little girl, followed by a little browsing of her choice, topped off with some afternoon tea would be the perfect way to spend a Saturday.

Her dad, conscious of my feelings, but aware of his daughter’s reaction to not being within arm’s reach of her bike or the remote control at all times, just didn’t say anything.

There’s a reason why in my more rational moments I had decided to stave off this big event until at least 2024. My daughter refused to have her hair trimmed, telling the stylist she wants it as long as Elsa’s so that her Granny would plait it for her. I’d be lying if I said that didn’t hurt. No amount of persuading could get that child in the chair. She’s like her mother when it comes to her goals, I suppose.

I then spent a stressful sixty minutes getting my own hair cut and trying to ensure my chatty little one wasn’t bothering the other clients too much, women who had no doubt left the kids at home in order to enjoy their own Saturday morning pamper session. Well done, me.

The window shopping wasn’t much more successful and the less said about afternoon tea, the better. All my child wanted was McDonalds so that’s where we headed. She places such importance on those damn bake sakes I thought platters of cake would be the way to her heart, but again, what do I know?

We were squished into plastic seats surrounded by gangs of teenage girls poring over their recently-purchased loot from Boots when I spotted a mum and her teenage daughter laughing at something in a magazine and sharing chips, placed in the centre of the table. It’s exactly how I pictured Grace and myself in years to come.

I pointed them out to my daughter and referring more specifically to their age, whispered: “That’ll be us one day.”

Disinterested, she glanced over, grunted, rammed a few chips in her mouth and mumbled: “Is that not us now?” 

Success! I think...