Not Waving But Ironing’s problem page

Dear Not Waving But Ironing

It’s Sports Day at school next week, and my children always nag me to take part in the races. Trouble is, I’m not very sporty and don’t want to embarrass myself.

Why not just have a go? Then, halfway through the sack race, have a vaginal prolapse, and get the headmaster to announce over the tannoy, ‘Does anyone have a bucket? Mrs X needs it to carry her womb.’ I guarantee your children will never ask you to take part again.

Dear Not Waving But Ironing

Last night my seven-year-old son came downstairs naked, and I noticed his penis was coated with bright pink nail varnish. He said his sister had done it. How should I have handled the situation?

The best course of action would be to act as if nothing’s wrong. Start gently removing the nail varnish with a remover pad, being careful not to pull or drag the skin. Then, completely out of the blue, recall reading somewhere that sexual kinks are often triggered by childhood memories, and start panicking that your son might grow up to be someone who seeks out blowsy middle-aged prostitutes to coat his genitals in acetone. Offset this by alternately roughly scubbing at his penis like it’s a carrot you’ve just picked at the allotment, and batting it violently from a distance, until the tears are coursing down his cheeks. Job done.

Dear Not Waving But Ironing

Sometimes, when I’m hanging out the washing, I feel like I want to die. Is this normal?

Entirely.

Dear Not Waving But Ironing

I’m 41. Am I too old to wear jeggings?

Yes. Don’t even think about it.

What about skinny jeans?

Are you deaf? Forget about it.

Not even…

Listen up, Lamb-shank Thighs – stick to pencil and A-line skirts, and boot-cut flares only! How many times do I have to tell you? Remember that photo of you at the zoo last year where you’re wearing black leggings? Yeah, the one where you look like your abnormally long body’s been attached to two mini chocolate rolls? Well, think on…

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29 Comments

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29 responses to “Not Waving But Ironing’s problem page

  1. Brilliant.
    The mums’ race should be banned – nasty competitive humiliating thing.
    And my boys haven’t indulged in penis painting, but they have gone through phases of sticking them into/through anything they can, including pen lids, bottles, rubber bands, Hula Hoops, gloves and socks. Am trying not to think of the future.

  2. It would be nice if the “Feck! Forty? When Did That Happen?” stage ended at 41… it would even be nice if it was as short a phase as that oily teenage bit, especially since the contracting of time that creeps up on us would make it seem as if it lasted a week. Then I look at your YouTube Middle Age test and thank gawd I don’t have to go through it all again 🙂 Jeggings? stuff them (amply) harem pants? really ought to have been left in 1986.. but lace jackets and long cardigan are surely just round the corner? Will 45 be too old by then? Arrrgh!

    • notwavingbutironing

      I guess one has to pick ‘an age when fashion stops.’ You know, like Bryan May and his hair (he stopped in 1974) and my Gran and her swirly, paisley print polyester blouses (she stopped in 1967). I’m sort of stuck in the early 2000s – I wear slightly flared Gap jeans and a stripey top, practically every day.

  3. No one, NO ONE over the age of 25 should wear jeggings. And skinny jeans ain’t too hot either.

    • notwavingbutironing

      I have a few amazingly tall and skinny friends who can carry them off, but I, with my Hobbit proportions, must steer clear. (The fashion-conscious, and sensitive-minded residents of Tunbridge Wells breathe a sigh of relief…)

  4. Oh, bugger, bugger, bugger. Have bought Jeggings. And wear them. Dammit.
    But on the brighter side, at least my son’s penis hasn’t got nail varnish on it!!! Yeh!!
    Brilliant post. More, please.x

    • notwavingbutironing

      Well hello, British Mummy Blogger of the Week! Thank you for visiting me amid your tight schedule of visiting orphanages and opening village fetes! Well deserved. xx

  5. Fab post. I can still remember my first sportsday when the children were at prep school. The Mother’s Race was announced and suddenly all the mothers (me excepted) dived into their bags to retrieve their D&G trainers. I sat with my chin in my lap! Silly me, I had no idea of the importance of the Mother’s Race, and particularly the winning thereof, in the social hierarchy of the school gate! Now they are in state schools and the parents don’t even get invited in case they turn up in string vests or, God forbid, jeggings!

    • notwavingbutironing

      God forbid indeed! I make a point of wearing ludicrous high heels to all sports/school events, so unless there’s a tottering race, I’m unlikely to be called up. May add fake plaster cast this year for insurance.

  6. Was sitting in a cafe with my newly purchased jeggings (M&S) nestling in a bag at my feet as I read this and nearly took them back. But why change the bad habits of a lifetime?

    • notwavingbutironing

      I feel I’ve unfairly slandered jeggings – I just wouldn’t like to see them on ME. Neither would you.

  7. What’s all this about jeggings? Is this a typo everyone has decided to copy or have I missed some new fashion must-have???

    • notwavingbutironing

      Denim leggings, basically – annoyingly, oh coltish-limbed one, you’d probably look damn fine in them.

  8. Er, yeah…what ARE jeggings? I’m obviously far too old and out of touch.

    And as for school sports day…don’t you realise that’s why an increasing number of parents in this country are home educating their children? Anything to avoid the humiliation of the mother’s egg and spoon and wobbly bits race.

    • notwavingbutironing

      I know, the whole thing is too ghastly. It’s painful enough watching my two, incredibly unsporty children trail in last in everything. Except the ‘walk with a plastic hoop on your head’ race – last year, my son’s overgrown buzzcut kept that thing nicely in place, while it tumbled off the heads of all those surfer dudes with silken curls.

  9. Oh my goodness! My sides are aching! Golly, you have a talent lady!! Brill!

  10. The poor boy, ouch.

    I often want to die when pegging out washing, sometimes I actually do.

    • notwavingbutironing

      If only your husband and kids didn’t keep resuscitating you, you could just drift off heavenwards. There’s no washing in heaven.

  11. libby

    Oh the horror of sports days!! brilliant post again as usual……..ps I am 56 and wearing black leggings as I type…I am ashamed, ashamed I tell you…but at least I don’t wear jeggings or skinny jeans..I have some decorum still……

    • notwavingbutironing

      I am sure you look lovely, Libby – you are no doubt longer of limb than me. My fascistic fashion rules are intended for me alone, and not the wider public.

  12. Oh dear, snorts and snuffles tea…had me hooting in a most unladylike fashion.

    Loved this post.

    Jeggings? What? Well I don’t know what they are and thus I’m fairly sure I don’t wear them.

    • notwavingbutironing

      Now I’m starting to worry I may have misread the fashion pages of Grazia – I think the time has nearly come for varifocals.

  13. Lou

    I wept, then I swept upstairs to retrieve the new leggings (the ones from the trendy store with the zips in the ankle so’s you can get your fat calves in.. not sure if that is correct spelling for calves but it’s accurate!)

    The leggings (which made me look like Max Wall) are now in bin.

    I wore a sports bra and spikes to Sports Day, everyone else wore Channel. There was no parental racing… but I beat everyone to the tea. Yeah!

    • notwavingbutironing

      No parental racing? What kind of progressive nonsense is this? I only go to watch dads pull hamstrings. Anyway, well done on your tea-table victory. House point for Ms Archer.

  14. Amazing, I’m crying with laughter. x

  15. Debs

    Roffle!
    So glad I’m normal with the ‘wanting to die whilst pegging out the washing’!
    Thanks for cheering me up x

    • notwavingbutironing

      Thank you both, Mummyfiles and Debs. Now I feel all warm and fuzzy inside. I’m a bit fuzzy on the outside too, as it happens. x

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