Dear Diary, my child is old enough to be embarrassed by me, and I have the same shoes as Rishi Sunak

These two things may or may not be connected

Last weekend Max was invited to a birthday party in one of those places that are just acres of bouncy inflatables and slides and other stuff that’s obviously designed for kids, but which is pretty fun for adults too, I mean let’s be honest.

“You might have to go in with him,” said Terry. “Remember the last time, when he refused to go in without one of us?”

“That was years ago,” I pointed out. “I’m pretty sure he’ll be fine to go in on his own now. And his entire class will be there, anyway, so it’s not like he’ll be on his own.”

This, it turned out, was true. As soon as we arrived, Max raced off into the inflatable park without a backward glance, leaving me standing there looking on jealously, because I don’t know if you’ve ever been on one of those things, but I have, and honestly, 10/10, would go again. In fact, I remember coming home from our last visit to one and confidently announcing that if I ever became rich, the first thing I’d do would be to build a huge barn in my garden and fill it with inflatables, so I could bounce around every day, without having to encounter Other People.

“It’s good exercise, though,” I explained to anyone who would listen. “And probably easier on the joints than running. So it wouldn’t be weird at all.”

This time, however, my presence was not required by Max, so I sat on the sidelines with the other parents, and wondered idly to myself why they don’t market these places to adults, because it is good exercise. And it is easy on the joints.

You know?

“That was the best party I’ve ever been to,” said Max on the way home. “I wish someone else would have a party there, so we could go back.”

“We could go back, though!” I said, spotting my opportunity. “You don’t have to be invited to a party to go in. We could go one weekend. I could go in with you, seeing as your friends wouldn’t be there.”

There was a short silence from the back of the car.

“That would be really embarrassing, though, Mummy,” said Max at last. “You can’t do that.”

“Is it… is it because I dress like Rishi Sunak?” I asked, referring to the moment the week before when Max overheard me complaining about how Rishi had ruined my beloved Adidas Sambas, and decided he’d refer to me as “Rishi Sunak” from that moment on, even though he has only the vaguest idea who Rishi Sunak even is. “Is that why it would be embarrassing?”

“It’s not that,” said Max, in a tone that suggested it wasn’t just that. “It would just be embarrassing.”

“What if I went in with you?” said Terry, spotting an opportunity to one-up me, and prove himself to be the ‘cool’ parent. “Would that be OK?”

“No!” wailed Max, horrified. “That would be just as embarrassing! Stop it!”

Terry and I exchanged glances.

“Well,” I said, “I guess that’s it. He’s reached an age where he’s old enough to be embarrassed by us. I thought we had at least a few more years before we reached that stage.”

But no: here we are, already. And it just goes to show that it doesn’t matter how young and hip you are in your own head; to the younger generation, you’re basically Rishi Sunak, aren’t you?

Me ready for a trip to the inflatable park

“I thought Rishi had ruined Sambas,” I said when we visited my parents the next day, “But now I’m wondering if I ruined them first? Am I Rishi Sunak?”

“I don’t see the issue,” said my dad. “They’re just shoes, surely? What does it matter who wears them?”

“Come on, Dad,” I said, “Be real: no one my age wants to dress like the Prime Minister. I know we’re not supposed to admit that, but it’s true.”

“The Prime Minister is your age, though,” said my Dad, casually cruel in the name of being honest. “Isn’t he?”

“Actually, I think Rishi is younger than Amber,” pointed out my Mum, joining in. “Alexa, how old is Rishi Sunak?”

And yes, folks: it turns out that not only am I too embarrassing to be seen with my six year old, I’m also older than the Prime Minister — a fact that shouldn’t be even remotely surprising or disconcerting to me, but which nevertheless is both of those things, because, in my mind, Prime Ministers are very, very old people who are proper adults, whereas I, of course, am of a generation who wouldn’t look remotely out of place bouncing around the inflatable park in my Adidas Sambas. ¹

Ahem.

I mean, I think it’s obvious that I’m dealing with a lot of internalized ageism here, and I’m not proud of that. I’d like to think it’s also obvious that I’m not being entirely serious when I complain about Rishi Sunak having the same shoes as me, but, just in case it’s not, let the record show that I don’t actually care about that. Or not that much, anyway.

Age is just a number. People can wear whatever they want. Absolutely none of this matters. And all of this is true.

But.

But as much as I want to tell you that I believe wholeheartedly in all of the above, it’s definitely true to say that there’s a growing disconnect between the person I am in my head, and the person I am in real life, and every so often I find myself confronted by that fact in a way that makes me suddenly doubt myself. I know perfectly well, for instance, that clothing is ageless, and anyone can wear anything they want, regardless of age. I have been singing this hymn for years, and I believe it, too.

And yet, every so often I find myself standing in front of the mirror wondering if I can “get away with” some item of clothing that isn’t in the least bit controversial, but which is nevertheless something associated with younger people than me, and … can I still wear it? Will I look like I’m trying too hard to be something I’m not? Will people laugh behind my back, and say, “Well, it looks like Amber’s ruined another item of clothing for the younger generation, then!”

“No,” I told myself firmly, when these thoughts became too intrusive at some point last week. “No, it’s fine. I can wear whatever I want. No one cares. And Max wouldn’t be embarrassed by my appearance at the inflatable park, he’d just be embarrassed because he’s too old now to need his mummy to come in with him. That’s all it is.”

So I showed him my new trainers, which, if we’re being honest, aren’t dis-similar to his new trainers:

“Please don’t wear them in public, Mummy,” said Max, turning pale. “You can’t have the same shoes as me.”

And that’s how I ruined Converse High Tops.

Sorry, Max. And, well, everyone.

The good news for Max is that, just three days after his trip to the inflatable park, his dream came true and he was invited to another birthday party there in a few weeks.

The bad news for Max, meanwhile, is that I’m going, too.

Do you think I should wear my Sambas or my Chucks?

Until next week,

1. I mean, I’d have to take them off to actually go on the inflatables, obviously. But you know what I mean.