Mothering Heights

Have you any idea, kraken-fumblers, how much I loath and detest the term ‘yummy mummy’? Well, if you didn’t before you will now, bless your poor, poor souls.

What a vile fucking concept this yummy mummydom is. It’s no longer enough to be a mother, you now have to be a mother who is fragrant, delightful, erudite and, all in all, some mythical creature who has never been near a nipple pad in her life. It’s utter bollocks, of course, and just another way of women bashing the fuck out of each other rather than just getting with the endless to-do list that they’re already embroiled with every day of their lives.

Why the fuck does anyone want to add the burden of being yummy to the already crippling responsibility of being a mummy? Look at it this way: we, mothers, have already grown another human being, developed size 24 arses, had our vaginas poked/ stretched/ torn, shat on the delivery table with the effort of it all, leaked milk from our tits, fed another human from our tits, gone bananas to the tune of PND, survived on two hours sleep a night, wept with exhaustion over tasks as basic as getting dressed, swapped sex for Benjamin fucking Bunny and blown cosmic sized holes in our careers. And now you want us to look pretty too? Go, as they say, fuck yourself.

This yummy mummy malarchy is yet another unachievable myth, of course. Worse, it makes women feel like dribbling failures if their school run shoes have anything less than three inch heels. Excuse me?

I see women who have achieved this myth as the biggest victims of all. For fuck’s sake, how much effort must it take? And why don’t they have anything better to do with their time? The likes of Victoria Beckham are praised for their perfect mummydom but all I see is a woman so cowed by this image that she’s not allowed to leave the house unless she’s catwalk ready. Who, I ask you, wants a life like that? It’s amazing VB has time to take a shit. Most mothers don’t and that’s when they haven’t seen the business end of a mascara wand for three months. How the fuck you do it while matching you spring wardrobe with your new Laboutins is beyond me.

Funny thing is, I have a picture of myself and Kraken Junior by my bed and the frame has the words Yummy Mummy written on it. It was given to me when my fanny stitches still meant that I had to pee with my head lower than my pelvis just to stop the stinging (you work it out). I now revel in how the frame and picture are poles apart. It’s my daily act of seething rebellion. My smiling face is hiding the rapid onset of severe PND and what would become visiting rights to the local psychiatric unit. That’s about as yummy as I managed to get. And that’s about as yummy as I’d like to stay, if it’s all the same to you.

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2 Responses to Mothering Heights

  1. susan-death says:

    Having been at the business end of a pretty severe bout of PND I couldn’t agree more! The daily struggle to get dressed was enough without the added pressure to coordinate. Nowadays with two children under 5 and crippling anxiety if I manage to leave the house in an ensemble not covered in snot and crayon I am delighted. However, I have started going out in the evening again and use these rare child-free hours to put on more make-up than the average drag queen and dance until I collapse.

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