The Emperor's New Clothes

Dearest Ms. Mac,

Life is somewhat trying today… I rushed home after a stressful day at work to hear all about Crotchfuit No.1’s trial afternoon at the elegant cooking school where he hopes to be come a world famous French chef. He enjoyed his half-day mini-apprenticeship there, and Mr Grumpy Blackheart says the school seems very good. About 30 children were involved. When the parents left, the children were given aprons and taken to the kitchens where they made cookies and flambéed pears!

But, when I found out that:

(1) my son wore the crappy old sweatshirt I had expressly forbidden OVER the smart new white shirt and black trousers (which cost me 30 euros) all the children were required to wear, and

(2) that Mr Grumpy Blackheart didn’t bother to tell him to take the sweatshirt off when they arrived, I exploded in a fireball of menstrual, migraineous rage and gave them both a severe bollocking.

My display of maturity then segued seamlessly into a dramatic throwing of self onto the bed and sobbing until I lost my voice (no doubt to the relief of the whole family). The hormone replacement tablets are obviously lacking a certain vital ingredient…

I went to SO MUCH TROUBLE to enrol him on the course ten days ago. Firstly I had to fill in eleventy billions forms, attach photos, prove my son's identity and blood group, and make seventy thousand photocopies of it all before getting the dossier stamped by his current school. Next step was to anxiously retrieve his dossier from another child, because the collège mistakenly gave it to another boy by the name of Crotchfroot (I’m not making this up). Then, because of their error, I had to sprint to the Post Office in the hot sun to meet the 12 noon deadline for express post two days before the mini-apprenticeship.

Thereafter followed an expensive trip to the Smart Clothes Shop to get the correct apparel. I spend a jolly afternoon washing and ironing the lovely new clothes. Yesterday morning I expended much energy in specifically refusing his request to wear the crappy old sweatshirt (“It’s 25 degrees and humid today darling, you won’t need a sweater at all”).

I went to SO MUCH TROUBLE to ensure he would get the best chance at making a good impression. I could have killed somebody last night. I punished, punished, and punished him; no computer (even for looking up sports results), no football jersey and no TV for three days. I even told him he would have to wear the smart white shirt to school today (I know he won’t do it). I told him if he can’t obey his mother he will never succeed at school and he will end up as a lowly paid rubbish man. I hated him, I hated his father (I KNEW I should have taken the boy myself, but could not get off work), and most of all I hate myself.

Crotchfruit no.2, the female one, was crying all night because we are supposed to have her birthday treat shopping trip to Paris with her best friends Cécile and Liliane in two days time. However, Cécile was rushed to hospital last night with viral meningitis and is undergoing a spinal tap today. I have texted her mother to send love and kisses, and am anxiously awaiting news.

Am I a callous bitch? But my first thought was “Is it contagious?”

My second thought: “Should I postpone the birthday outing until Cécile is better? Of course I should!"

But there are no other free Saturdays until mid-June…and my son’s burpday is also coming up. Should I take daughter and Liliane to Paris on Saturday as planned, then do something else with Cécile when she’s recovered? My brain is melting into a viscous pile of wobby, undercooked scrambled egg.

I do hope you are having a good day for me to vicariously “enjoy”.
Keep me posted.

Red-eyed love and hoarse-voiced kisses served up from a bottomless pit of self-loathing,

Antipo
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx