Mommy is the Root of All Evil

Two bloggers. Two different hemispheres. One vision (largely impaired by too much clutter, dirt and booze). Exposed for all the world to see as Housekeepers Of Ill-Repute, Proprietresses of Dubious Maternal Instinct and Woefully Neglectful Wives.

Here they are, flashing their dirty bits yet again in the second of three simultaneous postings. Click here to read the sister post.

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I recently came home from doing an emergency dash to the supermarket with the three children in tow when I suddenly stopped and took stock of how they had dressed themselves for our little excursion.

Something's not quite right (or left) here

What's that poking out the top of those natty knickerbockers, Mr J?

Whoops! Turns out they're five sizes too small for you and not knickerbockers at all AND they're made in China...

Yet another memorable trip to local shopping centre “Party Central” to add to our growing collection, including: me with my trousers inside out, me still wearing an apron tied around my neck like a cape from a previous game of Super Heroes, and The Pixie with her skirt tucked very determinedly into her underpants. And then there are those many times we’ve gone there ostensibly to buy milk but have ended up putting on one hell of a show for all the other patrons, featuring songs from the Choir of the Primal Scream and some good old-fashioned Rock’n'Wrestling moves by the $2 rides.

However, one shopping trip stands out above all others. A few years ago, I was in Coles with a barely-born McGee wailing inconsolably in his pram when Mr Justice and The Pixie got a bad case of the Gumps and started running, running, running up and down the aisles, leaving me screaming after them like I was having some kind of Scream-Off with my infant son. By the time I had herded everyone to the checkout, I was feeling distinctly frazzled (to put it mildly) and an old lady who I was *sure* was about to tut disapprovingly instead smiled kindly at me and said “It’s hard work, isn’t it.” All I could do was nod and try to hold back the tears. 

I think mothering has always been hard. But I quite frankly don’t care to count the number of times I’ve heard the older generation make remarks about how lucky we have it these days because of this, that or the other. Regardless of what we have or don’t have now, the truth is that it still feels damn hard. Is it because so many of us have lived Other Lives before we chose (or fell into) this one and we’re so acutely aware of what we’ve given up? Or is it because in this Age of Information™, we are bombarded with so much conflicting advice that whatever you end up doing, you can find at least seven university studies that prove  you’ve done Totally the Wrong Thing?

And let’s face it: us womenfolk don’t exactly make it easy for each other. I once sheepishly admitted to a group of women that I had become so angry with a two-year-old Mr Justice’s balloon antics with his newborn sister that I had confiscated it from him and popped it with the nearest sharp implement I could find – which happened to be a knife. A very sharp and very big knife. Mr Justice had cried and cried and I had felt desperately sorry for what I had done as well as deeply ashamed that I had lost my temper so completely over a mere balloon. One of the women who I was telling this chose to comment on how it was unlikely Mr Justice would ever forget such a violent image – in fact, she really could not stress this enough to me. She might have said something more constructive like “Whenever I get that angry, I remove myself from the room and remember to breath and count to 10 very slowly until I’m no longer seeing the world through a thick red mist” rather than just get the boot in. No wonder everyone feels like we have to pretend our children sit around playing quietly with wooden toys, snacking on macrobiotic treats (the use of the word “treat” with word “macrobiotic” seems strangely disingenuous) while we smile benignly at them from our gleaming white kitchens, ready to leap into action at the very second they require our help, love or attention. Needless to say, there haven’t been any further knife attacks on balloons in this household since that awful day, but even if there had been, do you think I would tell anyone about it? 

You see, that’s where we’re all wrong not to be honest with each other. Isn’t it better to admit these things, these small failings as mothers, discuss them, learn from them, and never repeat them? If we just bottle it all up inside and maintain our Stepford facades, we run the risk of exploding – like one of Tiddles mid-gastro nappies. In two words: Not. Good. Not good for us and not good for our children. 

So for the record: Yes, I sometimes shout at my children. Yes, I have been known to let them eat junk food. Yes, I have on occasion slapped them on the leg. No, I don’t always brush my children’s teeth in the morning. No, I very rarely introduce reunite my daughter’s hair with the hairbrush. And no, I don’t often – if ever! – manage to stick to the prescribed two hours of screen time per day. 

So sue me. Judge me. Call me names. Alert Social Services. Avoid me on the street. Stop reading my blog. But truly, no-one can accuse me of not loving my kids more than anything else on this planet and not always trying my absolute utmost to be the Bestest Mummy Ever. And if sometimes I fail, it’s because I’m only human. And oh so very human at that.