I was going to do green eggs and ham. That would be a cool costume, the competitive mother that sometimes lives inside me thought. Thankfully I silenced her, as I always do, not wanting to spend hours after returning from a trip to the theatre constructing said eggs and ham out of felt. My son is only two, but this year will be his second World Book Day costume. Last year I was even more half-arsed: he went to nursery as Peekaboo Moon. In other words, he wore a jumper with a moon on it.
The tedious online discourse about World Book Day costumes rears its head every year, but to a relatively new parent the whole thing is a bit baffling. Make a costume or don’t, buy a costume or don’t … who cares, as long as the child is happy? Except what I’m learning is that the World Book Day costume is, to some people, symbolic of what sort of parent you are, and the whole thing carries quite a lot of class baggage.
“Of course stay-at-home mothers with literature degrees have the time to rustle up an intricate Artful Dodger costume on the sewing machine!” the mums who are low-paid nurses doing night shifts might complain. “Of course the busy working mums just bung a nylon Frozen costume in their Asda basket,” the stay-at-home mums might snipe. “It isn’t even a book!” The time-poor mums resent being expected to add to their load through crafting; the cash-poor mums find the cost of materials prohibitive. The time-poor, cash-poor mums – which seems to be most of us, in this economy – wish the whole occasion would go away. And some schools this year have listened, reasoning that the cost of living crisis means parents are being put under unreasonable pressure costume-wise. As for the dads, no one asks them, because even though it’s 2024 the whole fancy dress burden still seems to fall on women’s shoulders. (Dads who conceived and constructed their offspring’s World Book Day costumes, please get in touch via the letters desk.)
Growing up, World Book Day wasn’t a thing. My mother had little money but enough time to help make costumes for other occasions. She was also a skilled dressmaker, which helped. I consider our beautifully stocked fancy-dress box a great childhood privilege, but it’s unlikely my son will be as fortunate. One of the things about motherhood that has shocked me most – despite everyone trying to prepare you, it doesn’t really hit you until you’re living it – is just how difficult it is to juggle childcare even with part-time work. Managing to do anything beyond that feels like such a miraculous bonus that you end up congratulating yourself for achieving even the most rudimentary of practical tasks. Emptying the washing machine within 24 hours of a wash cycle finishing, for instance (the rinse button has had a rather gruelling and environmentally unfriendly workout these past two years). So forgive me if I don’t have time to make a pair of Victorian knickerbockers. Yet my mum also often worked part-time, and somehow always did. So now I feel bad.
Anyway, my small boy loves Winnie-the-Pooh, and so Christopher Robin it is. We have everything required already in the house, so all I need to do is blow up a red balloon and write a note that says: “Gon out, bisy, backson, C.R.” Unfortunately, while everyone else was down a “is the Duchess of Cambridge being held prisoner having been replaced by a clone?” rabbit hole, I went down a “Christopher Robin” one, which is how I ended up crying on the sofa on Sunday morning about how AA Milne had PTSD and the real-life Christopher Robin was bullied at school for his starring role in his father’s creation. “I think you’re just crying about the idea of a child being sent to boarding school,” my husband said (I had also had one too many Manhattans the night before, though it’s true that since having a son I find the very thought of boarding school unbearably sad). He pointed out that by the end of his life Christopher Robin Milne had come to a place of acceptance regarding Winnie-the-Pooh, and had used the Disney money to set up a charity for his severely disabled daughter, Clare, which helps disabled people in the West Country to this day.
So consider my son’s costume a tribute, but also, as I drop him off at nursery looking adorable and clutching his Pooh bear, a sign of World Book Days to come. Whatever he’s into, I will try, within reason, to facilitate, because all that matters is that he is happy. In other words, parents, it’s not about us. Although as with many things, we seem quite gifted at making it so.
What’s working
Picard frozen organic creamed spinach. The bairn loves it, and it microwaves in minutes. It’s not cheap, but it does go a really long way and makes a really quick pasta sauce.
What’s not
Whole grapes. On recent trips to the Young V&A and Tate Modern, I was perturbed to find that the fruit cups sold for children contained whole grapes – a major choking hazard, as a paediatrician in this newspaper has pointed out. I wondered if I was being OTT, but after polling other parents I felt encouraged to complain. Both museums took me seriously, with Tate Modern saying they never should have gone out uncut and Young V&A taking them off sale until they could rectify the situation.
Rhiannon Lucy Cosslett is a Guardian columnist
