#morherhood

I’ve been thinking about this, ever since my sister shared with me that her friend is struggling in new motherhood. Just like I did. Just like our mom did. Just like we all probably did.

We’re fed the gold standard of Supermom from childhood. In tv shows, who is the one who holds everything together? Who picks up all the slack when things are going hilariously wrong for the characters? The mom.

On social media, we see women doing it all and looking great doing it. Even the “being a mom is hard” posts (this one included) are still... filtered. Edited. Somehow pretty. And the message is always the same: You got this. Because you have to. Because you have no other choice. Failure is not an option, so go conquer!

People on the outside looking in echo the Supermom refrain, too. “How do you do it?” (We don’t know we are literally just trying to keep everyone alive) “You’re a superhero!” (No, I’m just an exhausted person who doesn’t let it show) “Moms are amazing!” (We. Are. Just. Keeping. Level.)

It’s so ubiquitous that it’s become the standard expectation. They hand you this tiny, tiny human and suddenly you’re expected to know it all. Do it all. That’s the gig. And even when it’s hard, you still have to put on mascara for the artfully posed insta pic about how hard it is.

It’s worked it’s way into our minds so much that we feel woefully inadequate when we don’t hit the Super goal. We are all suffering from crippling imposter syndrome. And all the hyperbolic gushing about “how do we do it” only serves to make us turn more inward. Become more hidden and alone. Because clearly, we’re just faking it, and in our perspective, the praise only highlights our fallen-short moments. So we hide from the praise. And then we’re trapped with our worst thoughts.

So I move that we strike “Supermom” from our societal vernacular. Mom is fine. Good mom is fine. Kind mom. Strong mom. Smart mom. Be realistic and specific in your praise of us.

From a diary of a working mum...

After another restless night, the alarm buzzed at 05:45, but I snooze it until 06:20, as it’s nearly Friday and getting up is a real struggle. Theia decides to wake up with me, which sucks, as I cannot spend an hour in pure silence, but there you are.

My incredibly dramatic and whiney child decides to tantrum through her morning, throwing every option of breakfast straight at me, whilst I make coffee to keep my eyes half open. Don’t get me started on the dog and cat, tangled between my legs, demanding feeding. It wasn’t until 7:00, that I actually got a move on, otherwise I would have fallen asleep on the sofa.

I make Theia’s lunch and pack her nursery bag. Dress her, brush hair, using my phone as an item of bribery, if not, she would go to nursery looking homeless. Encourage to brush teeth. Dress myself, make up, hair. We are out of the door just after 08:00 (first time this week!), I even squeeze in a quick natter with my mother.

Theia is throwing yet another tantrum as at the tender age of nearly 2, she has suddenly lost the use of her legs to get to nursery, so I carry her. If my back could gesticulate, it would show me a prominent middle finger for doing that daily. Theia successfully placed in nursery, so I run home, quick sip of my cold coffee and I’m on my way to work to start at 9.

Work - demanding, eventful, tiring, but in a sick and twisted way, fun as always. By midday, I want to bash my head against the computer and pass out, in hope for a wink of sleep. Three coffee’s later, it’s 17:00, at last! I’m going home. Quick trip to the shop as I ran out of the magical potion of sanity - coffee - and straight to pick up Theia.

Theia was good at nursery, what a relief. No bumps on her head as a result of silly behaviour or time out in the managers office. I bribe her once again, this time with chocolate, to let me carry her home, otherwise she bolts to the park and that’s a shit storm of its own kind, because whatever the weather, swings are life. Get home, another coffee. Coffee doesn’t even scratch the surface anymore; at this point of the day, I strongly consider illegal substances to give me a boost.

I rush downstairs. Start cleaning the kitchen, garden, laundry on, I still haven’t put the dry washing away, but surely it can wait till Christmas? Bathroom cleaned, toilet scrubbed. Hoovered, due to the dog destroying a shoe box, one of my shoes from the charity shop (which cost £3) and various leaflets. Air freshening the living hell out of the house, because it smells of wet dog.

Dinner is nearly ready. I finally take my shoes off and sit down... the clock reads 21:50. I finally sit down, to have my dinner...

So please, don’t question me, when I’m nearly falling asleep at my desk. When I don’t laugh at every single joke or want to engage in social interactions. When I’m tearful for no reason, due to the state I’m in, as I can literally feel the hormones buzzing within me. When I suddenly lose the will to live. When I snap, bite and frown. I’m not asking for admiration, pity or even a gold star. Just understanding. Being a working mum is rough and today is a proof of it. I’m just trying to survive yet another day. Over and out.

Edit:

Today is one of those days where enough is enough. I’ve been on a roller coaster trying to just hang on until it’s over, but I’ve come to accept that it’s not going to and so I’ve begun working on highjacking the reins to my life back again.