Mum At Large

It wasn't until we all trooped in and I heard the familiar "clip-clop, clickety-clack" noise behind me that I realised Roscoe was still wearing his pink Barbie Cinderella-style glass slippers.

"I won't say anything about the shoes," the doctor whispered in my ear as he shook my hand. "Let's hope he grows out of it eventually."

I didn't tell the doctor about the pink tutu Roscoe had at home. And I thought it best not to mention his fairy wings, the Dorothy (from the Wizard of Oz) wig and "diamond"-studded tiara, all handed down to him by his big cousin, who knew he loved all her girlie things.

Constantly surrounded by boys' toys at home, Roscoe found pink, frilly things fascinating. I remember picking him up from a girl's house where he had been having an afternoon play once. "They were dressing up and playing weddings," the mother told me. "But we had two brides and no groom."

That was a few years ago now and the doctor was right. Roscoe soon tired of being a princess. Nowadays he is more likely to be dressed in combat gear or a suit of armour and holding a sword or gun than waving a fairy wand in his hand.

All the boys have gone through phases of dressing oddly. On the whole, I have let them get on with it. I have always thought it's better they get it out of their systems now than when they go to the office in 20 years' time.

That's why I ended up taking an hour to walk, ever so slowly, up the High Street with William wearing blue rubber flippers on his feet when he was three years old. He had them for his birthday and wanted to wear them everywhere, even in bed.

Like Roscoe in his Barbie shoes, I had got used to them and it was only when we ventured into the relative sanity of the outside world that I became aware of how strange we must have looked.

Over the years, one son insisted on dressing as Batman every day, another lived in his Spiderman suit. Charlie used to love wearing clothes that were too small, mismatched or really geeky.

When Albert, the youngest, was a toddler he hated wearing anything on his feet. Even in the depths of winter, he would rip off his shoes and socks.

I remember once in Whitby, rushing to get him back to the car in his buggy as quickly as possible, in the freezing cold and pouring rain, after he had repeatedly pulled off shoes, socks and blanket as well as his rain hood.

He was having a major tantrum about something totally unrelated and I lost count of the number of people who helpfully pointed out to me as I rushed past, head down while he screamed and cried: "The poor bairn's cold, he wants something on his feet."

Even worse were the comments I could hear behind my back. "Imagine bringing a child out in bare feet on a day like this," and "You'd think she'd put some socks and shoes on him."

So I should have known better last week, when I made the mistake of showing the boys the new shorts and T-shirts I bought them for our Easter break in Tunisia. Albert, of course, wanted to wear his immediately.

It was such a battle to get him out of the house in anything else after that that, true to form, I gave in and let him wear what he wanted. And so we ended up in town, in the freezing cold, me in a puffa jacket, jeans, fur-lined boots, hat, gloves and scarf and he in shorts, T-shirt and flip flops.

It started hailing. Then it started snowing. People stared. I should be used to it by now. One friend suggested putting a sticker on his back saying: "I dressed myself".

"I suppose, like the others, he's just experimenting and expressing himself. At least he'll grow out of it," I consoled myself, remembering the doctor's words.

And then my friend told me about her teenage son, who has just become a Goth. He and his girlfriend walk round town dressed in long, black capes with pale faces and lots of black eye make-up, wearing phials of each other's blood on chains round their necks.

Perhaps the nightmare has just begun...

* WHEN I told my sister over the phone in a loud voice that I would rather the boys didn't spend money in the shops getting me something for Mothers' Day, I was thinking along the lines of receiving little poems or hand-made cards instead. It wasn't until later in the evening, as I noticed Roscoe itching and suddenly had the urge to scratch my head myself, I realised my wish had, sort of, been granted: they gave me nits on Mothers' Day.

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