There would be finger painting and puzzle solving and den building.
2015 would be the year of the Supermum.
‘So how did it go?’ I hear you ask, though I’m guessing, deep down, you know the answer. That, if Supermum really had rocked up with her quinoa animal faces, I would be writing an altogether different book. It would be called something like ‘How to be Supermum’ and it would have a cover bearing a picture of a smiling mother and children in Daz-white T-shirts doing some sort of craft activity (without Mum cursing the ‘bastard glitter’).
So, no, it didn’t go that well.
And, as I have since seen in another New Year, I can officially provide a progress report for all the months subsequent to New Year 2015 – these were, after all, resolutions designed to extend beyond one year towards forever Supermumdom. So here goes.
The children do not watch less TV. Sometimes, I fear we are watching even more TV as I enlist childcare in the form of both Mister Maker and Mr Bloom in the same day and later head off to bed with the theme to bloody Bubble Guppies in my head.
I still check my phone an unacceptable number of times throughout the day. It’s compulsive. If we go out for the day at the weekend, I have started leaving my phone at home or switched off in the glove box of the car. When I am on my own with the boys, though, I’m often on the cusp of developing Repetitive Strain Injury from excessive social-media refreshing. Sometimes, I pretend I need the loo so I can check on the headlines (like what BuzzFeed has to say about Kim and Kanye).
Biscuits are still used as bribes. Daily (hourly). Henry’s bribes have also been upgraded to doughnuts and CBeebies magazines. I know, I know. Awful parenting tactic. But it works, and I’m bloody knackered and weak-willed (and now drowning in freebie plastic magazine tat).
We haven’t been on loads of long walks. Maybe four or five (three). But we have worn wellies! And one time Henry brought back some sticks from the forest, which he pretended were hunting harpoons, so he’s practically Bear Grylls now.
I’ve voluntarily entered into just one cake-baking episode, and I was wound up after five minutes because Henry’s exclusive contribution was to eat the sweets earmarked for decorating it and hover precariously close to the hot oven while I sweated about third-degree burns.
I have, at least, purchased some paints and halfheartedly started a ‘craft box’ (God bless The Range), but I’d be lying if I said we’ve enjoyed this crafty time. I had this image in my mind of us creating Pinterest-worthy paintings, but all Henry wants to do is mix all the colours on the same piece of paper to create a soppy, wet, brown pile of shite. Don’t even talk to me about puzzles or glitter or twatty sequins.
So I’ve failed, right?
Well, yes, I have failed. In fact, this wannabe Supermum fell flat on her arse within a matter of hours and has continued to chaotically bum shuffle her way through parenting ever since.
Yet I am totally at peace with this failure, and I’ll tell you for why.
‘Supermum’ is an arse. She is an entirely fabricated patchwork of Cath Kidston dresses, superfood smoothies, 4x4 school-run vehicles and Mary Berry cookbooks. Supermum can be found on the Joules website sporting skinny jeans, a casual gilet and styled-to-look-messy hair, or hanging out in the kitchen of her uncluttered and stylish barn conversion, which smells like fruit cake.
Supermum bathes in a magic patience elixir and never gets cross. Her children never protest-plank in the post office or shout their mouths off about farts and bums because she has enforced boundaries. She has two children (one of each, obviously) and they never watch telly unless it is a snow day, when they drink hot chocolate under a tartan blanket because she is so much fucking fun.
Despite having spent many months of parenthood being jealous of Supermum, I’ve come to realise it’s a bit like being jealous of Barbie and her unattainable hip/waist/bust ratio. Supermum can take a flying fuck at a rolling chia-seed muffin for all I care because Supermum is not real.
Nobody manages to be Supermum all of the time.
There are days when I have a bloody good stab at it. One time, we went for a walk in the woods, constructed a den in the living room, did some finger painting and made hot chocolate all in the same day (yes, I Instagrammed those things and felt quite smug). But it’s a bit like Supermum roleplay: the everyday run-of-the-mill reality is something altogether different.
I’d love to take my kids on an adventure every day. And bake some gingerbread. And make Tracy Island out of washing-up bottles. But, on an average weekday, Henry charges around at 100mph, shouting, ‘I am Buzz Lightyear!’ and I have to battle with four loads of washing because some nappies do not do their job and Jude has been sick and the home-insurance renewal needs posting and stuff needs sterilising and I need a shower because three days’ worth of dry shampoo has created an unsightly white build-up . . . On these days, I actually can’t be arsed to go on a sodding adventure or facilitate messy play in a house which already looks like Hurricane Rita has struck it.
So I whisk the boys to the park (again) for a quick blast of fresh air and then I come home and put Mister Maker on. And give Henry a biscuit. And check Facebook for an hour.
That’s life, isn’t it? That’s just how it is.
Even without the endless crafts, chia seeds and bottomless barrels of patience, my boys seem to think I’m pretty super.
I’m not sure anything else really matters.
* * *
‘I was totally knackered and overwhelmed with the lifestyle change. It wasn’t rosy like everyone has you believe and I remember just wanting to scream, “Piss off!” at the other mums at playgroup who were discussing how to make glitter Play-Doh.’
Steph, Lincoln
* * *
Mum Guilt
I hate feeling guilty.
Since becoming a parent I have experienced guilt at a level over and above the guilt I’d encountered before. Over and above the guilt experienced when telling my friend my phone had died when I couldn’t be arsed to chat, or after drunkenly saying something I didn’t mean (or maybe did mean but shouldn’t have said), or after eating a More to Share bag of Maltesers (without sharing) and not doing any exercise.
This newfound guilt is harder to shake off. It sits there churning in the gut, churning around the heart – sometimes, it feels like an overall churn of the whole torso region.
I’ve discovered I am not alone in this guilt overload.
Since starting the blog, I have been inundated with messages from mums that are rooted in feelings of guilt and inadequacy, messages containing phrases like ‘I just feel so bad about X’ and ‘I wish I could be more like Y’. And I usually reply: ‘You really shouldn’t beat yourself up about X or Y, motherhood is bloody hard work! You’re doing your best and the fact you’re questioning how you’re doing shows you care. You’re never alone, stick with it, my dear xx.’
And I then feel like the fakest of fake hypocrites because I spend my days beating myself up and rarely find comfort in the fact that I’m ‘doing my best’. My best just isn’t good enough. So, really, I suppose I should also be feeling guilty for telling people there’s no need to feel guilty when I still feel guilty?! So. Much. Guilt.
Last year, when deliberating on writing a blog post about Mum Guilt, I thought it might be helpful to write down all the things I have felt guilty about since becoming a parent. So here’s my Guilt List, which has evolved over the years:
I didn’t take folic acid for the first seven weeks of my pregnancy because I didn’t know I was pregnant.
I should have bought the premium pregnancy vitamins and not the budget ones.
I didn’t take it easy at work in the third trimester; I worked flat out and probably damaged Baby Henry.
I should have had a drug-free birth. I drugged my baby.
I wish I had managed to breastfeed for longer. I haven’t protected Henry from diseases.
I shouldn’t have got angry when he cried all the time as a baby. Nobody
else shouts at a crying baby.
I went back to work early and left him. What kind of mother does that out of choice?
I don’t do enough with him when I’m at home. He’s bored.
I’m bored when I’m at home. How awful is that?
I shout too much. I’m too impatient.
I’m in some way ‘cheating’ on Henry by having another baby. He will no longer be my Whole World.
I mostly forgot to take any vitamins during pregnancy two.
I also had the odd glass of wine and the recommendation is: no alcohol. I may only have had a unit here or a unit there, but if there’s something wrong with my baby everybody will know it is my fault.
I wished for a girl, and that’s why Jude’s birth was so awful. I deserved it.
I haven’t taken Jude to any baby classes. Henry did baby massage and music groups in his first year. Jude is neglected.
I spend far too much time checking my phone.
I don’t cook enough healthy stuff. We eat too much convenience food.
I let Henry have too many snacks. His teeth are going to fall out.
We don’t have a nice garden. I’ve ruined my boys’ childhood because we live in an urban jungle.
I’ve bought shoes not meticulously fitted in Clarks, which will no doubt lead to foot deformities.
I left Henry crying at pre-school, and he knows now that I am just a great big liar because I said I’d never leave him.
I often wish the time from 5 p.m. until bedtime would just die. Some days, I wish this from as early as 11 a.m. I’m not appreciating my time with them.
I’m not a Fun Mum. I don’t do much craft/baking/painting. I’m boring and shit.
Reading my list again once I’d written it was pretty staggering. Some of it is so ridiculous it would be hilarious if it wasn’t just a bit bloody sad.
I wonder if hindsight irons out the guilt. I’m no longer sweating about the missed folic acid, the drugs in labour and the shorter than recommended time spent breastfeeding – it is what it is. I also know (with the back-up testimonies of friends and family) that Henry really did cry all the time. I was at my wits’ end with the crying and, while I’m not proud of the day I shouted, ‘What the fucking hell is wrong with you?’ (while crying myself), I know I spent far more of his first year cuddling him and singing to him. The guilt from those early days has lifted.
But I’m still living some of the list. The pang that I should be doing more exciting stuff with the boys, that I should be playing with them more, that I should be living in the moment and enjoying them, that I should stop looking at my watch to see how much more is left of the afternoon and then tweeting about my disbelief at how much more is left of the afternoon.
In a few years’ time I have no doubt the guilt will evolve into a new form. Not being able to do the school run every day due to work commitments, not spending enough time encouraging them to do their homework, not having the money for swish holidays abroad.
In fact, I think I’m already suffering from future guilt in anticipation of the day my boys are old enough to read this book. Guilt in anticipation of their exposure to my warts-and-all account of motherhood. Maybe I’ll wish I had let them think I’d enjoyed every second and never once pined for the life I had before they arrived.
But, in the game of Guilt Top Trumps, I’m keeping those guilt-fuelled messages from other mums in my mind and pushing thoughts of potential future guilt to the back of it.
So what is to be done about this perpetual guilt train we find ourselves on? I can’t very well tell you to ‘give yourself a break’ and ‘stop beating yourself up’ when I’m often failing to heed my own advice. So my appeal is a simple one.
Share the guilt.
Not share the actual guilt but share your feelings of guilt. With other people. With other parents. Because you can bet your bottom dollar that guilt is all around and, after half an hour of discussing who has the most reason to be guilty, you’ll probably just conclude you’re all a bunch of unnecessarily guilty numpties and start feeling guilty for wasting too much time feeling guilty.
I’m still standing by my assertion that, if nothing else, feeling guilty shows you care.
Genuinely, though, there’s no need to feel guilty about most of the crap on my list. Half a glass of Pinot Grigio and some forgotten vitamins in pregnancy do not make you a saboteur of the baby vessel. An epidural does not line your child up for meth addiction. It probably is good to put the phone down and play with the kids more, but don’t get distressed about ‘not doing enough’. I like to think that time together is enough.
Plus, they can do all that crafty shit at playgroup. Guilt only becomes regret if you let a toddler loose with sequins.
* * *
‘I couldn’t understand why I wasn’t basking in the glow of new motherhood that everyone else talks about. Every day felt like a struggle. I felt tremendous guilt about that. My daughter is hilarious and, in retrospect, it all seems worth it.’
Sara, Cardiff
* * *
You Don’t Have to Explain Yourself to Anyone
Mums are defensive creatures.
We feel the need to explain why we do things. Why we feel things. Why we behave in certain ways. To explain that this isn’t usually what we’d do but we were short of time/it’s a treat/we are having a difficult day …
There are times when I find the urge to justify my parenting choices pretty overwhelming. When I hear myself adding a rationale to my every move, as if I’m anticipating the ‘How come you do it like that, then?’ question. More often than not, that question is never asked, but I can’t seem to stop myself throwing an explanation out there, anyway, just in case. I’ve developed an involuntary habit where I add a line of defence to all my responses concerning the way I do things with the boys.
I’m pretty sure my aforementioned Mum Guilt is behind this. The underlying doubt (I might not be doing the right thing, I might not be good enough) creeps in and manifests itself in a slightly self-protective tone. At the heart of it all, I think I’m just frightened other parents will think I’m a crap mum.
It’s definitely not just me. I hear other mums explaining themselves all the time.
And I’ve come to the conclusion that this is completely unnecessary. There is just no need. The following are genuine justifications I’ve been offered during everyday playgroup/park conversations with other mums and the responses I wish I’d given (I think I probably just nodded):
‘I only got him a dummy because he whinges a lot and it helps him settle, I don’t really agree with them …’
Relax. A dummy is clearly working for you. I wish our two had taken a dummy but, alas, they did not. There was no pacifying my babies, more’s the pity.
‘She wouldn’t usually have a chocolate biscuit as her mid-morning snack, but we’re running low on fruit …’
Chill out. Honestly. So she’s having a biscuit. I can see she’s happy, healthy and I’m sure she has her fair share of healthy snacks, too. But she likes chocolate biscuits because she’s a child; I’ve yet to meet a child who doesn’t like chocolate biscuits. You promised her one if she used the loo at playgroup. It’s all good. Zero justification needed.
‘The TV’s only on because I need to get some washing done and it provides a distraction for half an hour, it wouldn’t usually be on …’
There’s nothing wrong with a bit of TV. I know wall-to-wall cartoons are never ideal but, let’s face it, we all need to get stuff done, right? Thank God for CBeebies, the childminder who is never on holiday.
I have noticed that chats about breastfeeding also promote these defensive outpourings. And I do understand that: breastfeeding is a very emotive topic. I have experienced firsthand the temptation to tell the world/his wife/his dog about my decision to switch to bottle feeding when my baby was four months. One time, I started outlining Henry’s reflux issues and slow weight gain to the woman behind me in Boots. She neither needed nor wanted to hear H
enry’s paediatric referral history, but she was gifted our entire feeding story, anyway. I think it was more for my benefit than for hers – I was feeling hormonal and delicate and just a little bit paranoid that I was being judged for having a tub of formula in my basket. I felt an impulse to make it known that I had tried.
But I know that when I ask a new mum in general conversation, ‘How’s the feeding going?’ and she is not breastfeeding, I’m genuinely not digging for an explanation. It is just a question that helps establish what to talk about; I’m not going to start ranting about leaky breast pads if she hasn’t ever breastfed and, by the same token, I’m not going to ask her if she’d recommend Aptamil Hungry Baby if she’s exclusively breastfeeding. I’m just asking how it’s going. There is no requirement for her to elaborate on all the problems the baby had latching on, on his low birth weight or the mastitis that prompted the decision to switch to formula. Of course, if she wants to chat about all of those things, I’m all ears. But she actually needs to say no more.
Perhaps we feel inclined to continue saying more because, as parents, we fear being judged. We’re worried that we will be assessed and found sadly lacking. Maybe, sometimes, we hope our explanations will nip that judgement in the bud: ‘If I just explain why I’m doing it this way she won’t think badly of me …’
The truth is, she still might. Because here’s the thing: some people will judge you anyway.
I have met mums who definitely are judging you. And me. And every other parent. A small handful of mums who think they are doing everything right. In fact, they know they are doing it right because they’ve bought all the parenting manuals and read every Which? report dating back to the first infant-travel system ever invented. It’s their way or the highway. These are the mums who come out with uninvited tips that start with ‘I have always found …’ or ‘I’d be careful doing that with her because I’ve read …’
When I first had Henry I would nod and smile at un-solicited advice from those mums and then head home to further wallow in my failings as a mother, feeling embarrassed at having been outed as an unprofessional parent. But, second time around, I developed the ability to ignore unwanted intervention.fn1 And now, when well-meaning but immensely interfering mums offer nuggets of wisdom such as ‘You know, you really shouldn’t use the word “naughty” because it is so negative and might affect his behavioural development,’ (yes, really: actual quote right there), I shoot a small but firmly dismissive smile which I hope says, ‘When I need your advice, I’ll ask for it. Until such a time, you can piss off.’
The Unmumsy Mum Page 16