The politics of pink

My son is regularly mistaken for a girl. This doesn't bother me. He's only 14 months old, after all. He has lovely golden curls which I never want to cut off. (I'm going to though, alright? Eventually).

It seems to really bother those who do the mistaking, as it were. They become very apologetic and assume they have committed some terrible faux pas. I don't think they believe me when I say I don't mind. Sometimes I sense their indignation at the way my child is presented, as if he should be offering more concrete clues as to his gender: 1) he has curls, 2) he is wearing a pink shirt, 3) it is 'teamed' with blue shorts. This confuses people. 

My boy is still so young yet already there is societal pressure on him to conform. Fashion is just one area of many. Variety in boys' clothing is generally non-existent; the uniform of T-shirt and shorts is presented in a palette of navy, khaki and brown. Red for Christmas, maybe. My son has personality and flair. Khaki just doesn't suit his nature nor his skin tone. Pink is a much more suitable match. So sue me.

I don't wish I had a girl. I'm not trying subconsciously to turn my toddler into one. I just want him to be who is. 

Should it stay or should it go?

Moving house is one thing. Moving country is quite another.

You haven't truly decluttered until you've stared down the barrel of a miscellaneous toiletries collection and agonised over the destiny of each item. Is it: a) in date, b) worth using up, c) worth giving away, d) worth shipping over, or e) none of the above? All those bits and pieces carefully stockpiled during Christmases, birthdays and special offers on Soap and Glory at Boots, then hidden away and forgotten about until newly purchased, identical products join them in the darkness. Not for me, the luxury of shoving it all into a box and shifting it a few miles down the road. I now have to make a decision on every single thing I own. Every. Single. Thing.

Never mind the bath bombs. What about the books? Trinny and Susannah's sage words may have languished in the garage for many a year (we never did get around to installing a bookcase) but what if I need to identify the shape of my bottom at some indeterminate point in the future? It may be a life or death situation (sartorially speaking, of course) in which access to that particular book is crucial. Do I take it? Do I store it? Do I give it away? You can see the bind I'm in. Likewise with my collection of cookbooks. I imagine I could be the sort of person who enjoys entertaining (still waiting for that personality trait to emerge) and naturally, I don't need to tell you that it would be beneficial to have a little bit of Nigella on hand to see me through.

Nevertheless, we have to be ruthless. There is no point in taking two sets of salad servers, regardless of the fact they were both gifts, as I have maybe used a set only once, no doubt trying to impress upon a hapless dinner guest that I was indeed a seasoned giver of hospitality. So, neither will make the journey. The same fate awaits the cast iron tea press, the crystal candle holder and the red faux leather magazine basket I was so chuffed to find as it matched the rug, giving the illusion of a co-ordinated design effort in the lounge.

In stark contrast, all of M's possessions will go with us, including a wardrobe that would put Derek Zoolander's to shame. In starting our new adventure we may have nary a scatter cushion between us, but our son will look fabulous. That's all that matters, surely.