I really don’t.
What time do supermums get up in the morning? Probably at 6am. Or if they’re really a few shades beyond blonde, 5:30am. Not me. I was probably still awake at 2am…..
(BTW: Thankyou, dear God, for inventing hormones, they’re so amazing WHEN you have them. I do wonder, though God, why you choose to deprive me of hormones just when my teenagers are becoming adults. If I was you, God, I would have had a long hard think about that. Hormones…Teenagers…bad idea. Hot flashes, sleep problems, irritability – JUST when you’re trying to enjoy yourself finally after nearly 40 combined years of child rearing….well, not your best creation if you don’t mind me saying so. Sorry, not that I’m saying Creation was a bad thing, it was SO good. I mean, I get that I wouldn’t be here otherwise, but the menopause thing…. you probably could have, oh, I don’t know… hand balled that over to the blokes?)
…..So if you wake me up at 6am I’ll probably knock your block off. That’s after I’ve gurned my face into the chewed tennis ball look and used a few four letter words on you. (Quite possibly loud enough for the children to hear, despite my ‘no swearing rule.’) If you don’t want mummy to break the ‘no swearing rule’ then don’t wake her before 8am. And do it with tea.
Don’t give me coffee in the morning, give me tea. I’m told I’m highly strung enough. Supermums drink coffee. It gives them….well it gives them something. I don’t need it, and I don’t want it. Maybe they have a green smoothie too. Chuck. Sounds disgusting. Green smoothies probably give them energy and fibre. If I want fibre I’ll go chew on the door mat. I don’t want a green smoothie. I want a croissant. Probably with jam. Oooh and butter. People who don’t have butter on their croissants, just because they are MADE with tons of butter, are cretins, and don’t know what they’re missing.
You won’t find me doing push-ups next to the bed, yoga on the floor by the window or meditating for 10 minutes before the morning rush. I don’t have time. I’m sleeping. Don’t be stupid, I’m not exercise free. I do exercise. I’m typing aren’t I??
Seriously? Yoga? Yoga reminds me of a dog that tries to lick it’s own balls. Always trying to stretch that leeeetle bit more. I stretch, just not doing yoga. I have to lean reaaalllly far up to get that last packet of Tim Tams on sale at the supermarket.
Supermums do exercise and yoga at sparrow-fart. How is anyone supposed to find you when you’ve jogged off a cliff, burpeed yourself into a coronary, or twisted yourself up so hard your big toe is lodged in your pancreas if it’s only 6am and still dark? Have you got NO sympathy for paramedics? Give them a break. Do what I do. Stay in your nice, warm bed. I’m doing it for all the men in uniform.
I’ve always been a bit anal about getting the kids off to school. They’re big boys now. Teen #1 is in uni. Teen #2 is in his last year of high school. Some poor misguided people have complimented me on the organisation and planning and nurturing that I have lovingly bestowed on my boys during their school years. Oh, it’s true, I adore my boys. But after smacking the the ‘snooze’ button on my iphone twice, praying for it to be Sunday (it’s not) and giving 39 seconds thought to faking a stroke, I get up ONLY because I have to.
Supermums do it because they want to. They probably don’t love their kids as much as me, devoting so much time to yoga (geez, how embarrassing!) but they seem to want to get up and make school lunches, check on uniforms and drive kids to the bus stop.
WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU!!! I’ve had 13 years (and counting) of doing all that, and I can think of more fun things to do with my time, like being marooned in a one man dinghy in the middle of the North Atlantic surrounded by Great White Sharks. I’m anal about it because I need to know I’ve done it properly – they’ll have food and drink, a clean and ironed uniform and they’ll be on the bus on time. Then it’s ME time – YAAAAYYYY!
Supermums make Chia tubs, carrot sticks with hommus, tabbouleh and organic chicken on wholegrain wraps. My kids think it’s pretty good if they get a chocolate brownie. Who doesn’t like a chocolate brownie?
Supermums were the ones crying harder than their offspring at orientation day at kindergarten. Give me a break. (no really…give me a break.) Imagine what I could do with my time when the fruit of my loins are at school.
“Off you go, little Freddie,” (disengage chubby hand from leg) “bye now, mum’s going…byyyeeeee…..”
Supermums probably go home after this traumatic (pppthhh) experience and make protein balls for the ‘home coming snack’ or go online to buy some more active wear. I probably went out with a girlfriend to Flower Power and had morning tea after wandering around the nursery. Heaven. What’s the point in self induced PTSD?
Supermums probably wear power suits to work. Or look REALLY good in their K Mart uniform. How do they do that? I dunno. They have good hair and good skin. (all those green smoothies). Supermums do not get dark, or grey, roots. They do their hair on time every time. When they actually do this is a mystery. I can’t believe they’re getting up at 3.30am to squeeze in a quick head of foils before yoga.
I don’t believe Supermums ever get things like reflux. Or bad breath, or gas. I’m pretty sure they have those gadgets that ‘foof’ out a delightful aroma of field flowers after they visit the powder room too. And I bet they really do use powder. Because they don’t have age spots, sunburn, freckles or blemishes. If they get any of these things, supermums don’t complain about it. They continue cooking their pasta-free spinach tortellini without comment. I, on the other hand, call the waaah-mbulance every time I find a new wrinkle, sun spot or …usually ( I admit) another kilo of lard. Why suffer in silence if no one knows what you’re doing??
I belonged to a committee once. It was an Art Society. MY art society. It was quite fun because I was the boss. But nothing short of flying pigs would convince me to join a P & C. (for my overseas readers that’s the Parents and Citizens association of a school, somewhat like your PTA) Supermums always join the P&C. Are you crazy? Why would I do that when I can perfectly easily sit around on my lounge and argue with my husband? I don’t need extra people to argue with. I can find plenty on my own. People who want to join P&C associations for fun need to seriously consider a lobotomy. I would possibly do it given the choice of that and sticking bamboo skewers through my ears and into my brain. Maybe.
Supermums do label clothes. And they wear active wear. (Snort of laughter.) I think I have a Broken Bay Water Police T Shirt somewhere. It has a kind of a label. It’s Government issue, so that’s a label. As for active wear, who’s to say you have to be active in it. Track suits are used by athletes all over the world. I love a good track suit. You don’t have to wear them on a track, they work just as well on the sofa. Once I had a bright mauve pair of trackie dacks, and answered the door wearing them one day. My niece said to me “oh, you’re still in your jammies?” even though it was 2pm.
“Well you’re an idiot,” I thought. “Don’t you know active wear when you see it?”
Supermums wear their active wear out to coffee. It’s Lorna Jane or Michelle Bridges active wear. You can recognise this type of supermum as they clothes are hi-viz apricot, hot pink or lime green. They wear their Nikes or Brookes and really teeny cut off socks that make them look like they’re not wearing any. This is to highlight their slimmer than slim ankles. I do have ankles. Somewhere. Have a look at this GREAT youtube by Van Vuuren Bros, “ActiveWear”.
And they know what kind of coffee they want to order without looking at the menu.
“Can I get … (note they don’t say ‘May I have..’)… a small decaf soy-lite latte with an extra shot and hold the foam. I spend 10 minutes perusing the menu then ask for a cappuccino, changing my mind at the last minute and going a vanilla milk shake.
AND supermums get their babies Babyccinos. What the hell is that anyway? Did you actually just pay $4 for a takaway cup of milk froth? 92% air? that you have to spoon into the kid’s mouth yourself? You’re mental.
I don’t want to be a supermum. I don’t do French Polish on toenails. Don’t get me wrong, I like nail polish. But I get all giggly and silly when the little girl tries to paint a tiny weeny little white line on my smallest few toes. I’m a professional artist, and even I wouldn’t bother doing it. Come now…who’s toes have whiter than white nails anyway? No one I know is going to be fooled. Not with the cow manure that I put around the garden last week.
The main claim to fame of a supermum, I believe, is working at a career combined with working at home as the mum. Give me a break. The career would be like an 8 hour holiday every day.
I know some REAL Super ladies, mums that juggle and struggle and work and fight for their life they’re giving their families. They deserve a medal. I wouldn’t call them Supermums. I’d just call them amazing. I’m not one of them.
When I fill out the form that has ‘occupation’ I have to tick the Home Duties one. Oh great. I reckon home duties are about as fun as Ebola. So I’m thinking I have about 176 careers, All At Once.
I’m the chief cook and bottle washer, the letter writer, the banker, the ironer, vacuumer, duster, secretary, typist, head essay listener, and taxi driver. I’m the homework supervisor, first car buyer, I’m the tidier, the gardener, christmas present buyer, I’m the chef, the event planner, the christmas tree decorator, the birthday celebrator. I’m the shoulder to cry on, the wailing wall, and the venting enabler. I am the nightmare crusher, the sore knee fixer, the bad day hugger, and low mood cuddler. I do the uniforms, the clothes shopping, the size noting, the wardrobe sorting. I throw out and sort out and tidy up draws and under beds and in cupboards. I do wall painting, toilet cleaning, patio sweeping and weed pulling. I’m the driving instructor, the budget discusser, the school work organiser and pencil case stuffer. I’m the book coverer, the birthday cake maker, the treat buyer and the holiday planner. I do the food shopping, the unpacking and the dinner making. Not to mention snacks, lunches and the odd breakfasts. I nurture the exam sitters, I nurse the headaches, rub the backaches, treat the illnesses and medicate the sick ones. I make appointments, take kids to doctors, dentists, hospitals and sports. I book movies and buy books, research classes and cheer on successes. I go to presentations, parent/teacher meetings, school plays, karate classes and open days. I pick up kids from playdates, REAL dates, pubs and shops. I try to learn about their favourite pastimes even when it’s nearly all jibberish to me. I plan birthday parties, barbeques and dinners. I buy their favourite icecream, make chocolate brownies, endure more spaghetti bolognaise than is reasonable and enjoy doing it. I think the term Supermum is misused. I’m a stay at home mum. And I’m super. Give me a wine.
credit: photo Desperate Housewives TV show.
photo Van Vuuren Bros from youtube Activewear.
Hey, if you like a chuckle, with a dash of sarcasm….you got it. Try these articles:
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