When Good Mummies Go Bad

For the past few weeks I have been looking after my sick children. With the help of paracetamol, antibiotics and chocolate cookies I have nursed them back to health, whilst patiently cleaning vomit in the middle of the night and providing entertainment to distract from the pain in the early hours of the morning, with a trip to the emergency room thrown in for good measure.

I’m officially exhausted and in dire need of a little break, but the parenting schedule doesn’t include little breaks. Whilst I fully understand this, my worn out emotions are betraying all good intentions I have of being a good mummy .This I sadly discovered after an extremely trying day with an exceptionally irrational child.

The day was off to remarkable start with a series of unforgettable Victorian-style tantrums. I remained calm and continued about with our morning routine. At school drop off, I managed to see off my daughter whilst having a screaming side-performance from my son that would put the members of “Kiss” to shame. Still, I went about the rest of the morning in a cool manner, trying to tell myself that I am the adult that I have control of my emotions and he is just a child unable to articulate his feelings in any other way. Got it. Just breathe.

After a blissful two hours on the beach searching for treasures, chasing sea gulls, drawing in the sand and a decadent picnic of brioche and hot chocolate, I believed I had conquered the drama for the day. How wrong I was.

Never under-estimate the stamina of a determined pre-schooler. The rest of the afternoon played out in much the same manner as the morning. Me trying to reason with an inconsolable screaming child. Him over- reacting negatively to anything or anyone, including so much as even looking at him.

Bath time was a spectacular show – think trying to bath a screeching cat and you’re on the right track. Still however, I persevered through this and spoke gently to him, trying to soothe his clearly tortured soul. This was followed by a disastrous dinner. But it’s when I finally sat on the couch and took stock of my day and my ears were yet again assaulted with more screeching that a complete meltdown was experienced on my behalf, with my voice rising above all the screaming to be heard, no doubt, by all of suburbia.

At that point I was quite happy to be escorted to a loony bin only to have some peace and quiet. In fact, I was silently praying for that to happen. Surprisingly my own tantrum seemed to have some significant results as my children stared back at me in awe of my own dramatic capabilities and became quite obliging with my requests to brush teeth and go to bed.

I went to bed ashamed of my outburst, wondering how it all went so wrong when my intentions were so right. My aching heart was comforted by my son who wanted a cuddle in the middle of the night. So whilst I wasn’t the perfect mummy, I did the best that I could, and that has got to be good enough for today.

The Mummy Mafia

There are a small group of women at the school gates, who have the ability to make me feel like the epitome of an unfit mother. They are the ones that make casual wear look très chic, whilst I look like I’m on my way to clean out the oven and defrost the fridge (which incidentally, I am). The ones that make you feel guilty for using regular supermarket variety veggies, instead of the exotic organic ones purchased from the farmers market. The ones that frown upon your inability to control your pre-schooler as he screams and kicks you in the shins. They are the ones that have “motherhood” down to a fine art and wear it like a badge.

They almost always are on the PTA, actively involved in fund raising, over-zealous in volunteering their spare hours to the school in any way they can, and ensure that their children are signed up for all the preferred after school activities. Whilst I struggle to finish my very measly tasks I’ve set out for myself each week. I don’t know how they accomplish all that they do, but they do, ensuring you feel guilty about how little you do for your children and the school. I’m more than a little intimidated by these women, and feel like I’m the terribly un-cool kid back in high school.

I have a theory on how these Mafia Mums are born into our world of swimming lessons and ballet classes. Having left their careers at the labour ward door, their ambitions have moved onto their children and the school they attend. Over-qualified and frustrated, they pour all their energy into their over-stimulated children and transfer their self-esteem issues onto other mothers through their sophisticated bullying methods. With little else to occupy their idle minds they are left to interrogate others lives. Are they happier than the rest of us, constantly checking their “score card” of where they’re currently positioned, in fear that they may have dropped a rank? Doubtfully.

I won’t be selected as the next “chosen one” by the Mummy Mafia as I very much do not cut the grade, but I should be happy and patting myself on my back as my children are generally happy (with the odd tantrum thrown in for good measure), get sufficient outdoor exercise (but still get to watch their favourite TV program) and eat their balanced meals (with some naughty treats allowed). And most importantly, quoting my daughter, in her eyes I’m the “bestest mum in the whole world”.