I woke up yesterday morning from a horrid dream. We had left Pip in the care of a school friend of Marto’s and for some reason he had decided to get Pip’s ears pierced. He had returned her to Marto, who hadn’t noticed the piercings. When I saw them, I was furious and spent a long time scrolling through Marto’s phone, to find the friend’s number and to attempt to scream at him. My attempt thwarted only because I couldn’t find his number listed in Marto’s phone; getting more and more livid as I frantically tried to find the number.

Who knew. My worst nightmare being Pip having her ears pierced.

As a child, I was desperate to have mine pierced. Not as a baby but I clearly remember being obsessed with the idea whilst living in California (where I was 6 – 8 years old) and this continuing right the the way until I finally persuaded, aged 14, my mother to let me have them done. I even used to introduce characters in stories that I wrote as “Cassandra, who was 12, with blonde hair and pierced ears” {my characters were always called Cassandra – she was my Jessica Wakefield – and always the same age as me, and always with the pierced ears. At least until I had them done, and then I think I moved on to thinking about boys}.

Perhaps now I understand my mother’s reluctance. As with a lot of things, it takes becoming a mother to start to understand my own mother. Not that I  really feel a mother yet. Just the other day something a friend said reminded me that when I took Pip to the hospital a few weeks ago and was asked for “mother’s details” I wondered why they wanted my mother’s information. I still can’t believe Pip is a person, let alone get my head around the idea that she is my daughter and I am her mother. [I just typed I am *my* mother. How prescient?]


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