ONE
OK. Don’t panic. I’m in charge. I, Rebecca Brandon (née Bloomwood), am the adult.
Not my two-year-old daughter.
Only I’m not sure she realizes this.
‘Minnie, darling, give me the pony.’ I try to sound calm and assured, like Nanny Sue off the telly.
‘Poneeee.’ Minnie grips the toy pony more tightly.
‘No pony.’
‘Mine!’ she cries hysterically. ‘
Miiiine poneee!’
Aargh. I’m holding about a million shopping bags, my face is sweating, and I could
really do without this.
It was all going so well. I’ve been round the whole shopping mall
and bought all the last little things on my Christmas list. Minnie and
I were heading towards Santa’s Grotto, and I only stopped for a moment
to look at a dolls’ house. Whereupon Minnie grabbed a toy pony off the
display and refused to put it back. And now I’m in the middle of
Pony-gate.
A mother in J Brand skinny jeans with an impeccably dressed daughter
walks past, giving me the Mummy Once-over, and I flinch. Since I had
Minnie, I’ve learned that the Mummy Once-over is even more savage than
the Manhattan Once-over. In the Mummy Once-over, they don’t just assess
and price your clothes to the nearest penny in one sweeping glance. Oh
no. They also take in your child’s clothes, pram brand, nappy bag,
snack choice and whether your child is smiling, snotty or screaming.
Which I know is a lot to take in, in a one-second glance, but believe me, mothers are multi-taskers.
Minnie definitely scores top marks for her outfit. (Dress: one-off
Danny Kovitz; coat: Rachel Riley; shoes: Baby Dior.) And I’ve got her
safely strapped into her toddler reins (Bill Amberg leather, really
cool, they were in
Vogue). But instead of smiling angelically
like the little girl in the photoshoot, she’s straining against them
like a bull waiting to dash into the ring. Her eyebrows are knitted in
fury, her cheeks are bright pink and she’s drawing breath to shriek
again.
‘Minnie.’ I let go of the reins and put my arms round her so that
she feels safe and secure, just like Nanny Sue recommends in her book,
Taming Your Tricky Toddler. I bought it the other day, to have a flick through. Just out of idle interest. I mean, it’s not that I’m having
problems with Minnie or anything. It’s not that she’s
difficult.
Or ‘out of control and wilful’, like that stupid teacher at the
toddler music group said. (What does she know? She can’t even play the
triangle properly.)
The thing about Minnie is, she’s . . . spirited. She has firm
opinions about things. Like jeans (she won’t wear them), or carrots
(she won’t eat them). And right now her firm opinion is that she should
have a toy pony.
‘Minnie darling, I love you very much,’ I say in a gentle, crooning
voice, ‘and it would make me very happy if you gave me the pony. That’s
right, give it to Mummy . . .’ I’ve nearly done it. My fingers are
closing around the pony’s head . . .
Ha. Skills. I’ve got it. I can’t help looking around to see if anyone’s observed my expert parenting.
‘Miiiine!’ Minnie wrenches the pony out of my arms and makes a run for it across the shop floor. Shit.
‘Minnie! MINNIE!’ I yell.
I grab my carrier bags and leg it furiously after Minnie, who has
already disappeared into the Action Man section. God, I don’t know why
we bother training up all these athletes for the Olympics. We should
just field a team of toddlers.
As I catch up with her, I’m panting. I really have to start my post-natal exercises sometime.
‘Give me the pony!’ I try to take it, but she’s gripping it like a limpet.
‘
Mine poneee!’ Her dark eyes flash at me with a resolute
glint. Sometimes I look at Minnie and she’s so like her father it gives
me a jolt.
Speaking of which, where is Luke? We were supposed to be doing Christmas shopping
together. As a
family.
But he dis appeared an hour ago, muttering something about a call he
had to make, and I haven’t seen him since. He’s probably sitting
somewhere having a civilized cappuccino over the newspaper. Typical.
‘Minnie, we’re not buying it,’ I say in my best firm manner. ‘You’ve got lots of toys already and you don’t need a pony.’
A woman with straggly dark hair, grey eyes and toddlers in a
twin-buggy shoots me an approving nod. I can’t help giving her the
Mummy Once-over myself, and she’s one of those mothers who wears Crocs
over nubbly home-made socks. (Why would you do that? Why?)
‘It’s monstrous, isn’t it?’ she says. ‘Those ponies are forty
pounds! My kids know better than to even ask,’ she adds, shooting a
glance at her two boys, who are slumped silently, thumbs in mouths.
‘Once you give in to them, that’s the beginning of the end. I’ve got
mine well trained.’
Show off.
‘Absolutely,’ I say in dignified tones. ‘I couldn’t agree more.’
‘Some parents would just buy their kid that pony for a quiet life. No discipline. It’s disgusting.’
‘Terrible,’ I agree, and make a surreptitious swipe for the pony, which Minnie adeptly dodges. Damn.
‘The biggest mistake is giving in to them.’ The woman is regarding Minnie with a pebble-like gaze. ‘That’s what starts the rot.’
‘Well, I never give in to my daughter,’ I say briskly. ‘You’re not getting the pony, Minnie, and that’s final.’
‘Poneeee!’ Minnie’s wails turn to heart-rending sobs. She is such a drama queen. (She gets it from my mum.)
‘Good luck, then.’ The woman moves off. ‘Happy Christmas.’
‘Minnie, stop it!’ I hiss furiously as soon as she’s dis appeared.
‘You’re embarrassing both of us! What do you want a stupid pony for,
anyway?’
‘Poneeee!’ She’s cuddling the pony to her as though it’s her
long-lost faithful pet that was sold at market five hundred miles away
and has just stumbled back to the farm, footsore and whickering for her.
‘It’s just a silly toy,’ I say impatiently. ‘What’s so special about it, anyway?’
And for the first time I look properly at the pony.
Wow. Actually . . . it
is pretty fab. It’s made of painted
white wood with little glittery stars all over, and has the sweetest
hand-painted face. And it has little red trundly wheels.
‘You really don’t need a pony, Minnie,’ I say – but with slightly
less conviction than before. I’ve just noticed the saddle. Is that
genuine leather? And it has a proper bridle with buckles and the mane
is made of real horse hair.
And it comes with a grooming set!
For forty quid this isn’t bad value at all. I push one of the
little red wheels, and it spins round perfectly. And now I think about
it, Minnie doesn’t actually have a toy pony. It’s quite an obvious gap
in her toy cupboard.
I mean, not that I’m going to
give in.
‘It winds up, too,’ comes a voice behind me, and I turn to see an
elderly sales assistant approaching us. ‘There’s a key in the base.
Look!’
She winds the key, and both Minnie and I watch, mesmerized, as the
pony starts rising and falling in a carousel motion, while tinkly music
plays.
Oh my God, I
love this pony.
‘It’s on special Christmas offer at forty pounds,’ the assistant
adds. ‘Normally, this would retail for seventy. They’re hand-made in
Sweden.’
Nearly 50 per cent off. I
knew it was good value. Didn’t I say it was good value?
‘You like it, don’t you, dear?’ The assistant smiles at Minnie, who
beams back, her stroppiness vanished. In fact, I don’t want to boast,
but she looks pretty adorable with her red coat and dark pigtails and
dimpled cheeks. ‘So, would you like to buy one?’
‘I . . . um . . .’ I clear my throat.
Come on, Becky. Say no. Be a good parent. Walk away.
My hand steals out and strokes the mane again.
But it’s so
gorgeous. Look at its dear little face. And a
pony isn’t like some stupid craze, is it? You’d never get tired of a
pony. It’s a classic. It’s, like, the Chanel jacket of toys.
And it’s Christmas. And it’s on special offer. And who knows, Minnie
might turn out to have a gift for riding, it suddenly occurs to me. A
toy pony might be just the spur she needs. I have a sudden vision of
her aged twenty, wearing a red jacket, standing by a gorgeous horse at
the Olympics, saying to the TV cameras, ‘It all began one Christmas,
when I received the gift that changed my life . . .’
My mind is going round and round like a computer processing DNA
results, trying to find a match. There has to be a way in which I can
simultaneously: 1. Not give in to Minnie’s tantrum, 2. Be a good parent
and 3. Buy the pony. I need some clever blue-sky solution like Luke
is always paying business consultants scads of money to come up with .
. .
And then the answer comes to me. A totally genius idea which I can’t
believe I’ve never had before. I haul out my phone and text Luke:
Luke! Have just had a really good thought. I think Minnie should get pocket money.
Immediately a reply pings back:
Wtf? Why?
So she can buy things, of course! I start to type – then think again. I delete the text and carefully type instead:
Children need to learn about finance from early age. Read it in article. Empowers them and gives responsibility.
A moment later Luke texts:
Can’t we just buy her the FT?
Shut up, I type.
We’ll say two pounds a week shall we?
R u mad? comes zipping back.
10p a week is plenty.
I stare at the phone indignantly.
10p? He’s such an old skinflint. What’s she supposed to buy with that?
And we’ll never afford the pony on 10p a week.
50p a week, I type firmly, is national average. (He’ll never check.)
Where r u anyway? Nearly time for Father Christmas!!
OK, whatever. I’ll be there, comes the reply.
Result! As I put away my phone, I’m doing a quick mental
calculation. 50p a week for two years makes A352. Easily enough. God,
why on earth have I never thought of pocket money before? It’s perfect!
It’s going to add a whole new dimension to our shopping trips.
I turn to Minnie, feeling rather proud of myself.
‘Now listen, darling,’ I announce. ‘I’m not going to buy this pony
for you, because I’ve already said no. But as a special treat, you can
buy it for yourself out of your
own pocket money. Isn’t that exciting?’
Minnie eyes me uncertainly. I’ll take that as a yes.
‘As you’ve never spent any of your pocket money, you’ve got two
years’ worth, which is plenty. You see how great saving is?’ I add
brightly. ‘You see how fun it is?’
As we walk to the check-out I feel totally smug. Talk about
responsible parenting. I’m introducing my child to the principles of
financial planning at an early age. I could be a guru on TV myself!
Super Becky’s Guide to Fiscally Responsible Parenting. I could wear different boots in each episode—
‘Wagon.’
I’m jolted out of my daydream to see that Minnie has dropped the
pony and is now clutching a pink plastic monstrosity. Where did she
get that? It’s Winnie’s Wagon, from that cartoon show.
‘Wagon?’ She raises her eyes hopefully.
What?
‘We’re not getting the wagon, darling,’ I say patiently. ‘You wanted the pony. The lovely
pony, remember?’
Minnie surveys the pony with total indifference. ‘Wagon.’
‘Pony!’ I grab the pony off the floor.
This is so frustrating. How can she be so fickle? She definitely gets that trait from Mum.
‘Wagon!’
‘Pony!’ I cry, more loudly than I meant to, and brandish the pony at her. ‘I want the
poneee—’
Suddenly I get a prickly-neck feeling. I look round to see the woman
with toddler boys, standing a few yards away, staring at me with her
pebble-like eyes.
‘I mean . . .’ I hastily lower the pony, my cheeks burning. ‘Yes, you
may
buy the pony out of your pocket money. Basic financial planning,’ I add
briskly to the pebble-eyed woman. ‘What we learned today is that you
have to
save up before you can buy things, didn’t we,
darling? Minnie’s spent all her pocket money on the pony, and it was a
very good choice . . .’
‘I’ve found the other pony!’ The assistant suddenly appears again,
breathless and carrying a dusty box. ‘I knew we had one left in the
stock room. They were originally a pair, you see . . .’
There’s
another pony?
I can’t help gasping as she draws it out. It’s midnight blue with a
raven mane, speckled with stars, and with golden wheels. It’s
absolutely stunning. It complements the other one perfectly. Oh God, we
have to have them both. We
have to.
Rather annoyingly, the pebble-eyed woman is still standing there with her buggy, watching us.
‘Shame you’ve spent all your pocket money, isn’t it?’ she says to
Minnie with one of those tight, unfriendly smiles which proves she
never has any fun or sex. You can always tell that about people, I find.
‘Yes, isn’t it?’ I say politely. ‘That’s a problem. So we’ll just
have to think of a solution.’ I think hard for a moment, then turn to
Minnie.
‘Darling, here’s your second important lesson in financial planning.
Sometimes, when we see an amazing, one-off bargain, we can make an
exception to the saving-up rule. It’s called “Seizing the Opportunity”.’
‘You’re just going to
buy it?’ says the woman in tones of disbelief.
What business is it of hers? God, I hate other mothers. They always
have to butt in. The minute you have a child it’s as if you’ve turned
into a box on an internet site, saying ‘Please add all your rude and
offensive comments here.’
‘Of course I’m not going to
buy it,’ I say, a little
stonily. ‘She’ll have to get it out of her own pocket money. Darling,’
I crouch down to get Minnie’s attention, ‘if you pay for the other pony
out of your pocket money at 50p a week, it’ll take about . . . sixty
weeks. You’ll have to have an advance. Like an “overdraft”.’ I
enunciate clearly. ‘So you’ll basically have spent all your pocket
money till you’re three and a half. All right?’
Minnie looks a bit bewildered. But then, I expect I looked a bit
bewildered when I took out my first overdraft. It goes with the
territory.
‘All sorted.’ I beam at the assistant and hand over my Visa card.
‘We’ll take both ponies, thank you. You see, darling?’ I add to Minnie.
‘The lesson we’ve learned today is: never give up on something you
really want. However impossible things seem, there’s always a way.’
I can’t help feeling proud of myself, imparting this nugget of wisdom.
That’s what parenting’s all about. Teaching your child the ways of the world.
‘You know, I once found the most amazing opportunity,’ I add as I
punch in my PIN. ‘It was a pair of Dolce & Gabbana boots at 90 per
cent off! Only my credit card was up to my limit. But did I give up?
No! Of course I didn’t!’
Minnie is listening as avidly as though I’m recounting The Three Bears.
‘I went round my flat, and searched in all my pockets and bags, and
I collected up all my little coins . . . and guess what?’ I pause for
effect. ‘I had enough money! I could get the boots! Hooray!’
Minnie claps her hands, and to my delight, the toddler boys start cheering raucously.
‘Do you want to hear another story?’ I beam at them. ‘Do you want to
hear about the sample sale in Milan? I was walking along the street one
day, when I saw this
mysterious sign.’ I open my eyes wide. ‘And what do you think it said?’
‘
Ridiculous.’ The pebble-eyed woman turns her buggy with an abrupt gesture. ‘Come on, it’s time to go home.’
‘Story!’ wails one of the boys.
‘We’re not hearing the story,’ she snaps. ‘You’re insane,’ she adds
over her shoulder as she strides off. ‘No wonder your child’s so
spoiled. What are those little shoes of hers then, Gucci?’
Spoiled?
Blood zings to my face and I stare at her in speechless shock. Where did
that come from? Minnie is not spoiled!
And Gucci don’t even
make shoes like that.
‘She’s not spoiled!’ I manage at last.
But the woman has already disappeared behind the Postman Pat
display. Well, I’m certainly not going to run after her and yell, ‘At
least my child doesn’t just loll in her buggy sucking her thumb all
day, and by the way, have you ever thought about wiping your children’s
noses?’
Because that wouldn’t be a good example to Minnie.
‘Come on, Minnie.’ I try to compose myself. ‘Let’s go and see Father Christmas. Then we’ll feel better.’
