The other day, I was leaving the school when I found two of the local dads, standing by the entrance of the school.
“Will you look at the two of you!” I commented. “Hangin’ out by the school gates and all.”
“We’re checking out the talent as they come in…” said one of them.
“… pushing their prams, a little like this?” I said, waggling my bottom a little as I kept walking, all the while knowing that I was still wearing the clothes I had slept in. Which was a nice touch.
“Yummy Mummies, they’re called.” the other one said.
“Isn’t the term MILF?”, I said, oh-so-casually over my shoulder as I kept walking through the gates.
“And what does MILF stand for, exactly, [NDM]?” they called after me.
“Not on school grounds, boys. Not. On. School. Grounds.” I chided them and was rewarded with a machine-gun clatter of boyish giggles.
When I told my husband about the exchange, his response was: “Oh, you are just a walking blog these days.”
“In my defence,” I replied. “It wasn’t nearly as bad as that time I accused [MJ] of wanting to stick his hands between my legs at the miniature railway.”
My husband shook his head and possibly rolled his eyes a little as he recalled That Time. The wind had blown my nearly-empty coffee cup into my lap and I had berated local dad MJ for not having reflexes that were cat-like enough to have caught it in time. And then I suddenly changed my tune and publicly applauded him for not using the cup incident as an excuse for thrusting his hands between my legs. Letting the coffee spill was, really, the Gentlemanly Thing To Do if you think about it. Which I obviously did. And made everyone else sitting at the table think about it too. As is my way.
It’s a strange thing, these friendships that have slowly been forming with other people’s husbands. Since I’ve had children, I’ve pretty much mainly met the womenfolk first – and then their menfolk later. [As an aside: I actually can’t think of a single heterosexual male I’ve befriended in the last seven years. They are even harder to find than a flattering photo of Amy Winehouse, not that I’m looking for either.] And my natural tendency towards the Opposite Sex has always been to hang a whole lotta shit on them. It’s good healthy fun!
But every now and then, I wonder if somehow I might have crossed that line into something that could be read as a) slightly flirtatious or b) incredibly aggressive or c) both. Which, if you think about it, is not a Good Look for a slightly over-weight and married woman facing 40 head-on wearing Socks’nCrocs and dried porridge on her t-shirt.
I guess reining in your flirtin’ ways a little is all part of that Becoming a Grown-Up Thang. You know, where you have to stop listening to (and singing along to) songs that have the F word in them as you do the school-run in the Tarago, even though you have P plates. Or talking too loudly in the playground about how you’re planning to hide a bottle of vodka in the Valco Mobile Home at the bush dance fundraiser.
It’s little wonder that so many people hit the bottle or the swinger’s circuit so dang hard the minute their kids leave home. Not saying I’m going to do either (for one thing, I don’t like jacuzzis) – I’m just, you know, pointing out a statistical truth. And, admittedly, a statistical truth that is not based on any hard evidence, like actual statistics or anything. Which is probably yet another of my behavioural traits I’ll need to rein in before one of my children bases their school project and/or PhD topic on my random observations. Don’t know about you, but I’m starting to think this “Responsible Adult” thing is just one long tough gig…