Pictures of the Dutch supermodel pushing her daughter's buggy while out for a "run" in her bikini made headlines this week. But what did two-year-old Lymee make of it?
I know you're an international supermodel, and Bugaboo probably paid you enough money for this job to keep me in Baby Dior until I leave nursery, but can we PLEASE go home now? You’re kind of embarrassing me. I mean, where did you even get that thing, was Borat having a clear-out?
I do feel for you having to leave the house semi-naked, because I find it really hard to get my clothes on by myself too, but people are starting to look at us funny. You do realise the only marathon the other mummies are preparing for is a box-set marathon, because they’ve run out of things to say to their partners that won’t start an argument, and they can’t actually go out of an evening for the next 16-18 years?
Why can’t you be more like the other kids' mums, the ones who actually look (and dress) like they grew child in their abdomen for nine months, had it cut out of them and then wandered around the house for at least a year on no sleep going WHERE IS THE SUGAR AND THE CAFFEINE, GIVE THEM TO ME NOW. I mean, I’d bet that bikini top you're wearing wouldn't cover even one quarter of one average post-breastfeeding boob. My friend Frankincense from nursery told me her mum's are so saggy that none of her old bras fit any more, I think she basically rolls them up around a pencil or something and gaffer tapes them into place.
And those quotes you gave to the interviewer lady aren’t going to help. “I couldn’t wait to get back to my workouts after giving birth”? Are you serious? If we’re going to be normal, you need to be a bit more, like, “After giving birth I couldn’t wait to get back to 45% proof alcohol” or “After giving birth I couldn’t wait to sit down without wincing”.
Actually, I think I see Frankie's mum over there... yeah I know she smiled and waved like she supports your feminist right to wear whatever you want while you prance about with our new designer buggy, but trust me, she hates you. I mean, you're not even sweating. Frankie reckons her mum can only wear black leggings if she goes out running, in case she pees herself. Every time she comes back she’s all like, “Where was this in the baby manual?” and Frankie’s like, “Mum, just get some pull-ups, NBD”.
I know what you’re thinking, right, it’s weird they even let someone that normal into our New York celebrity designer nursery, but when Frankincense’s mum put her name down, she was still this big like record company executive or something. It wasn’t until she turned up with Frankie and 18 months of root regrowth that they realised she - WHOA, bit of warning on the speedbumps, maybe? I nearly lost my Tommee Tippee Active Cup.
I mean, it’s cool that you’re role modelling a healthy lifestyle to me right now, but I do not need the kind of s*** that Apple Paltrow Martin has grown up with, you know what I mean? Where the kids at school all know that you don’t get to watch TV because you have to get an ancient Greek lesson from your nanny, before the whole family gets together to like pick avocados and sing hymns or something.
Mum. MUM. Are you even listening to me? This run was fun when we started, but now my beef Ella's Kitchen pouch is repeating on me from all the bouncing around. Also, I'm starting to get hat hair, which is kind of a bummer when a professional hairstylist totally went to town on my two-year-old barnet to get maximum cute factor out of this shoot.
Can’t we just turn back? I swear if you do, I’ll like, potty train myself or something. I’ll go a whole hour without whining, hitting you or shouting “no”. Cmon… I’ll let you brush my teeth… no, not the back ones, I’m not insane, I mean I’ll let you put a toothbrush in my mouth for more than a second without screaming, wriggling or kicking you.
Deal? Oh thank God. In The Night Garden is about to start on BBC World and Frankincense reckons that Iggle Piggle is about to find out that Makka Pakka and Upsy Daisy used to have a thing. I know, right? He’s not the only upsy one! Banter…