Middle-class? Me?

WHAT was I thinking? What? In the name of all that is precious and chocolate-based, what the hell was I thinking signing Boy #1 up for - wait for it - skating lessons?

Pre-child me would never have considered such a crazy thing. Willingly put a not particularly sporty 5 year old on a cold, hard, extremely slippery surface, wearing the equivalent of a pair of bread knives on his feet, take him to the edge of a busy rink populated by the sporty equivalent of drama queens and quite simply, push him off?

Are you off your rocker, Potty Mummy?

Well, quite clearly, yes, yes I am.

In my defence, it seemed like such a good idea at the time. The text came through a couple of weeks before Christmas from one of my mummy friends: 'D starts ice-skating lessons in the New Year' it read. 'It would be great if Boy #1 could join her; her sisters do it already, they love it; A, K and J (friends of my son's) are all coming, so would you like to sign him up?' Does she know my son at all? Do I?

Admittedly my first instinct was to reply; are you crazy? Do you know how rubbish I am at skating? Do you realise that despite being Dutch, Husband is only slightly less rubbish? I hate it, why shouldn't Boy #1 have the same opportunity to be physically inept, unable to stand up on shiny white stuff, and unreasonably prejudiced against anyone who can?

But then, I began to ask myself, why not? I never had the chance to learn to skate; ice-rinks were few and far between in my part of the Cotwolds 35 years ago, and those that were there were a) too far away, b) too expensive, and c) populated by scary trendy teenagers who would skate over your fingers in their swanky ice-hockey boots as soon as look at you, then loop the loop and do a triple salko just to rub in how crap you were compared to them... But just because I have the grace of an elephant on roller-skates, what law is there to say that my sons should be the same?

So, after discussions with Husband - who's attitude and prejudices are much the same as mine - we decided; actually, why not? It's not that expensive, it's not far from us, and Boy #1 would be surrounded by his friends. Plus, he will have the chance to learn a skill that is something we will never be able to master. (And let's just ignore the fact that we will never be able to hold up our heads at family gatherings again if this one ever comes out...)

So, after some fast-talking from me to Boy #1 to persuade him it was a good idea - mummy never learnt, she wishes she had done, and Daddy used to skate on the canals in Holland during the winter (not true I'm afraid, but lots of people did, so I used poetic licence), - we signed him up.

The first lesson was yesterday.

It was not what you might call a great success. But I'm hopeful. Boy #1 didn't actually cry. He even found it all quite cool. Granted, he couldn't stand unsupported, but that may have had something to do with his attention being caught by the pretty girls in the next group up in their sparkly dresses rather than spending the time listening to his teacher. Also? His fingers are all still intact. The teachers don't appear to be child-hating psycopaths. The rink was closed to ice-hockey skate wearing teenagers during lesson time. And the clincher for his brother and I? There's an ice-cream counter right next to the boot room.

What's not to like?

So he's going back next week, when he hopes to master the complicated art of standing up on the ice...

(What do you mean, it's not complicated? I never managed it...)

PS: I know you're desparate for an update on the potty training situation. But today I am too bored with the poo and the wee to write about it - which should give a pretty good indication of where we're at...