mum's the word

When I draw myself with Astrid (I don't want you to imagine high art here, we're talking skillfully executed stick people) I never draw glasses. Even though I've worn them more than half my life, I still don't think of myself as a glasses-wearer.

And it's the same when I'm reading stories. I'm never thinking of myself as the parent figure. I'm still there as the child, having the adventure, being eaten by the monster, or flying with the snowman.

And that's why, although I love The Tiger Who Came to Tea, it's also come as a shock to me. Look at Sophie's mummy, in her cardy and comfy shoes, not uttering a word of protest as the tiger scoffs every last one of her (no doubt) beautifully home-made cakes, her only concern being that there's no food left for daddy's tea. Is that me? Is that really me?

Or - worse - the slipper-shod mother in Raymond Briggs' divine The Snowman and the comfy-trouser-wearing mum in Penelope Lively's magical Two Bears and Joe. If mothers are present at all in these stories, they're the plumper-of-pillows, plonker-of-food, breaking-of-dreams figure in the background, slightly harried looking and always frumpy.

I think I may have to go on a mission now to find a mother-figure to aspire to. Until then I'm going to stick with projecting myself on to the lovely carefree children instead. So, like Sophie, I'm thrilled that a tiger drank all my bath water, that I got to eat sausages and chips and icecream at the local caff for tea, and I'm hoping one day he might come back to see us again some day.


(very sorry to see that Two Bears and Joe doesn't seem to be in print any more. If you can get hold of a copy, it's absolutely lovely: a little boy spends the day with imaginary bears, playing in the snow of his parents' bed, climbing the bannister forests, hiding in the bears' cave under the stairs, beautifully illustrated. Definitely worth 7p or whatever the second hand sellers are offering it for)