So, I think I’ve come to terms with it.
I’m going to be “the crazy parent”.
My partner will totally participate in the madness — we’ve already decided, for example, that we’re going to play a game with the baby when it arrives, where we steal her from each other and run away yelling “I stole a baby! I stole a baby!” in a weird French accent like the brownies from Willow — (if you have no idea what I’m talking about, here’s a video:
But I can just see it now. The “other parents” will label me the lunatic mother.
And I’ll probably deserve it.
I am not only going to send letters like this to my kid’s school, but it’s going to start well before then.
For instance, I did kind of teach my cousin’s four-year-old how to pull her great-uncle’s trackies down. He’s not, like, 70, in case you’re outraged (he’s only in his early 40s), and in my defence, when I was very small, he trained me how to do all sorts of extremely naughty things, like answer the telephone by saying “piss off” (this is what happens when you ask a 13-year-old practical joker to mind a cheeky three-year-old) and to pretend to poo on Nonna’s lap when she had company.
Really, it’s a karmic circle.
Plus it was funny.
But god knows what I’ll teach my own kids to do.
I already know that they’ll wear a lot of dress-ups. Because why wear normal clothes when you could be a pirate, or a Star Wars character, or an evil fairy?
But I can just see the other mum’s faces, when they arrive at our place in huge 4WDs to pick up their kids after play dates, to find little Madison and little Jackson wearing zombie make-up, brandishing plastic containers of biscuits that we all baked together as a fun activity but which I expect these imaginary mothers will frown at because it’s not healthy enough.
I also figure her kids chased the chickens around our backyard and put them on their heads, and they may have DIRT under their fingernails, from hunting for eggs. I don’t think she’ll like any of this.
But you know what? Fuck that lady. Because I bet her kid had a GREAT time.