ANN’S NAKED TRUTH
WASON MOORE ON BOOKS AND DRESS-UPS
MY name is Ann and I’m an addict. A book addict. I’ve used daily since I was five, and go through two to three books a week.
I read when I go to bed, when I wake up, when I eat breakfast, when I brush my teeth and when I do my hair (which explains a lot about my style, really).
I work primarily to support my habit since I was banned from libraries for non-returns. It’s an associated danger of addiction – you get so lost in the high you forget about all responsibilities.
I’ve even created my own support group – a school mum book club. This is not an excuse to get together just to drink wine. I mean, of course we do that … but we don’t need an excuse.
Our reads of choice are not just mum romantic fantasies either – although I did name our group Happy Endings. Look, at a Christian school you sometimes need to know when and where you can bust out some swear words – so whoever gets the joke is my new best f---ing friend.
But if there’s one thing that can make me go cold turkey it’s Book Week.
My only hate sprung from my only love.
It’s not that I don’t like dress-ups, I love them. Too much.
I get way too into a theme. My son is still suffering the emotional and physical scars after I encouraged him to dress as a character from the Emperor’s New Clothes in year two. The character I suggested was, of course, the Emperor. You know, the guy who was actually nude?
Obviously I allowed my child to wear some clothes – neutral-coloured leggings and shirt, along with a glorious red robe and gold crown.
But I thought it would be hilarious if, atop all that, my seven-year-old used the fake chest piece my husband wore when dressed as a Vegas male stripper to a 40th birthday party.
Big mistake. Huge.
I blame it on the nipples. Big on my husband, huge on my son.
At first he bravely paraded into the junior years courtyard but it wasn’t long before one of his friends couldn’t resist the lure of those gigantic boobies and gave him a nipple cripple.
Just like the Emperor, my son suddenly realised the “cool” costume his mum made him wear was actually excruciatingly embarrassing.
And so he cried. Tears dripping down his face on to his breasts.
His wonderful teacher managed to joke him out of his shame – and out of his boobs – and he ended up enjoying the day.
But I’ve been afraid ever since.
Every morning I offer a prayer of thanks that my children wear uniforms.
It’s one less opportunity to embarrass myself – or them.
I don’t know how parents of public school kids in America deal with the wardrobe malfunctions and meltdowns that must inevitably arise from daily free dress.
Combine that stress with guns and no wonder the country is in trouble.
To alleviate my nerves, I’m outsourcing Book Week costumes this year.
As both a book and dressup addict, I know that I can no longer trust myself with this temptation. Instead, I’ve handed over the reins – and the cash – to a fellow mum.
While I believe this is the beginning of a long-term rehabilitation from dress-up overdosing, I have no such intentions to withdraw from reading.
Particularly as my addiction seems to have skipped a generation and missed the children.
Despite the example I’m setting before impressionable youngsters, they ignore me – much as I ignore them when in the midst of a page-turner.
They’ve mastered the art of bingeing (looking at you Full House and Brooklyn 99), but not so much the reading. But I’m prepared to administer treatment to enable a fullblown bookworm habit.
Whoever doesn’t take their daily dose of reading has to wear the boob shirt to Book Week.
Read Ann Wason Moore every Tuesday and Saturday in the Bulletin