The Super Mammy

I wrote this for a charity anthology a few years ago. Not much has changed since!

The Super Mammy
Before I had children, I had a very clear picture in my mind of the perfect parent I was going to be. For starters, I definitely wasn’t going to be uptight. There’s nothing worse than a Mammy who won’t get on the floor to play or have a go on the bouncy castle, just because she thinks she might look idiotic. Well, there are lots of worse things, of course there are, but I knew I wanted to retain a sense of fun, even if, as a parent, I would be obliged to pretend to be a responsible adult most of the time. Anyway, I was used to looking idiotic, so that wasn’t going to be a problem for me. So, I’d be jovial, but I’d also be careful about setting rules and boundaries. There would be no somersaults or risky manoeuvres on the bouncy castle for example - that would be totally off limits. There’d also be no jumping off kitchen countertops, no running with scissors and no poking eyes out with forks.
As well as being a barrel of laughs, I’d be really nurturing. Not in an overbearing or scary stage-school mother way of course. Yes, I’d encourage my children to shoot for the stars and use their talents (which would be too many to count, obviously), but I’d also teach them to be kind and not step on others’ dreams on the way. I definitely wouldn’t suggest that they injure another child accidentally on purpose to land the lead role in the school Nativity Play, for instance. Ahem.
I’d be a counsellor and friend and the first person they would turn to in trouble - not that they would ever get into any trouble in the first place, because, in my infinite wisdom, I would steer them away from making any bad choices. And, while I was doing all that, I’d also cultivate an herb garden, grow my own fruits and vegetables and cook delicious, nutritious meals from scratch every day. My Mensa children would be poster kids for healthy living and I, in turn, would be feted by everyone from Jamie Oliver to Supernanny. I’d be a cross between Ma Ingalls from Little House on the Prairie and Nigella Lawson. In short, I’d be a Super Mammy.
It has been more than eight years since my first child was born and there are some days when, very briefly, I start to think I am Super Mammy. OK, so I may not be an award-winning chef (I’ve got the licking-your-fingers-suggestively bit down pat, it’s the baking I struggle with) and I have yet to plant any herbs or vegetables but there are times I can believe I’m doing a good job. The goal posts have shifted a bit of course, because, these days, meeting my parenting ideals doesn’t mean growing dinner from scratch. It means negotiating a whole host of little hurdles with as much good humour and as few calamities as possible along the way. A good morning, for example, means not forgetting the children’s school bags. A very good morning means remembering their hats, music and football boots too. If I can accomplish that and everyone is still smiling then I can start to feel smug and think, for a split second, that I have the measure of this parenting lark. It’s then of course, right when I’m patting myself on the back for a job well done, that a shining example of award-winning motherhood will pop up from nowhere, burst my perfect-parent bubble and remind me, swiftly and without mercy, that just because I can manage a measly task or two without disaster striking, a Super Mammy I am not.
A true Super Mammy is easy to spot. For a start, she’s on time - or early - for everything. She doesn’t struggle up to the school gates, miles late and red in the face, vexed with the exertion of a morning spent unsuccessfully trying to bribe a child to eat something, anything, before school. She’s also never less than impeccably dressed – she wouldn’t dream of wearing pyjama bottoms under her coat to do the school run and she never pulls on a hat to hide the fact that her hair hasn’t been washed in a week. She’s always perfectly groomed – and so are her children. Not for them a school jumper that has never seen an iron or a pair of shoes that are only ever cleaned with a baby wipe in the car just before reaching the school gates. Not for them hair that hasn’t been brushed properly or socks that don’t match. Super Mammy prides herself on ironing even her children’s underwear and polishing their shoes every single night before bed. All her progeny brush their own hair before they leave the house every morning – a habit she instilled in them from toddlerhood. And she couldn’t imagine how any mother would let a child loose in mismatched socks. All it takes is preparation. Preparation is key and she, for one, can’t sleep easy until everything necessary for the school day is organised and neatly laid out the night before – that prevents delay in the mornings, meaning her children have sufficient time to eat the organic porridge she lovingly prepares for them at their leisure. It is this commitment to preparation that sets a Super Mammy apart from the likes of me (purely a pretender).
Super Mammy is supremely organised. She does not forget which child has a play date and which had a keyboard lesson. She never mislays a child’s homework and then bribes that child to tell the teacher the dog ate it. She never arrives at school to find the yard deserted because she didn’t read the note announcing a staff training day. She does not have “trouble” with notes. She does not have trouble with anything.
She walks everywhere with purpose, her diligently organised handbag tucked neatly under her arm. This handbag is her portable office, and in it are the tools that allow her perfect existence to operate without a hitch. An endless supply of antiseptic wipes, nutritious snacks and bottled water is only the start of what the handbag can hold. Super Mammy loves nothing more than a pseudo emergency situation so she can really demonstrate her worth and the extent of her organisational capabilities.
Your child has a nosebleed? Good news! Super Mammy will come to the rescue in a jiffy with an icepack she just happened to have to hand! Your child falls and rips the knee of his trousers? Don’t panic! Super Mammy has a sewing kit to hand and will carry out an instant repair. (Her new motto for these credit crunch times is mend and make-do – she’s even learning embroidery in her very limited spare time.) Your child forgets his lunchbox? Never fear, Super Mammy always makes a spare, just in case.
Super Mammy does not try to keep track of her life by writing notes to herself on scraps of paper and the backs of supermarket till receipts and then promptly losing them. Super Mammy’s pride and joy is her To-Do list. She keeps one copy in the handbag (in its own special pouch) and a carbon copy on the cork notice board at home, where an intricate colour coded system alerts her to any possible hiccup in her finely tuned and expertly timed day. Super Mammy updates this list hourly without fail so she can keep one step ahead of her hectic schedule. She never misses a parent-teacher meeting, forgets to make a child’s dance-recital costume or is caught unawares by a school bake sale. She meticulously files past medical appointments in chronological order so she knows exactly when her child received each jab. She does not shove medical receipts into a kitchen drawer and hope they will somehow sort themselves out.
Super Mammy is confident she is prepared for every eventuality. A last minute birthday invitation? No problem! Super Mammy always bulk-buys greeting cards and an assortment of kids’ gifts – she keeps a stash in her boot specially. She does not skid to a halt in front of the supermarket five minutes ahead of a child’s party and then race inside to choose a random present. She carries a roll of Sellotape everywhere – she has never resorted to using Winnie the Pooh plasters to wrap gifts. She also keeps spare clothes, neatly ironed and folded in a recycled bag, in the car just in case her child ever throws up on her pristine upholstery after consuming too may sugary goodies while he has been away from her watchful eye. She could not contemplate having to mop up a child’s vomit with pages torn from a woman’s magazine, and she has never been forced to ask a child to wipe his dripping nose on his sleeve because she always has a pack of pre-softened Aloe Vera tissues in her purse. She brings her child’s borrowed books back on time. She has never received a notice from the library to inform her that if she doesn’t return The Gruffalo within a week she will have a nice day out in court.
Super Mammy has an herb garden. And a vegetable patch. She never serves her family fish fingers that may be past their sell by date or tries to pass off spaghetti hoops as vegetables. Instead, she clips wholesome recipes from magazines and involves her child in meal preparation (Little Johnny just loves to roll homemade pasta!). She does not watch Rachel bake on TV with a glass of wine in one hand and a packet of crisps in the other. She does not vow that she will cook like Rachel some day. She could give Rachel a run for her money right now if the mood took her. She has been buying exclusively organic produce for years. Actually, she’s recently acquired a few hens of her own (little Johnny likes nothing better than to collect the fresh eggs every morning). She does not buy supermarket spaghetti sauce and pretend it’s her own.
Super Mammy’s child is extra special. Little Johnny slept through the night from birth, smiled at four days, rolled over at three weeks, sat at two months, walked at six months and wrote his first sentence at one year. Super Mammy now enrols him in every available after-school activity to help him reach his potential and she encourages others to do the same because everyone knows children are sponges and it’s up to parents to expand their inquisitive minds. Super Mammy floats from one hellish activity to another serenely. She doesn’t develop a hunted look or a serious coffee addiction because every afternoon is now filled with a soul-destroying round of never-ending extra-curricular past-times that sucks her soul dry. She relishes the challenge of being in two places at once – especially when flute clashes with violin on a Tuesday.
So, there you have it. All the evidence adds up to one irrefutable, conclusive fact: I am not a Super Mammy and I never will be. I am not organised, I am not focused, and I probably will never have an herb garden or a vegetable patch. But I am also not losing precious sleep over it because, luckily for me, I don’t have to be a Super Mammy to have Super Kids. And they are what make me Super Happy.

Reality Bites

"Do I have to go to school forever Mum?" my young son asked me today.
"No. Not forever," I replied.
"But for a long time?"
"Yes, for quite a long time," I admitted.
He paused to consider this, looking off into the middle distance, his brow scrunched as he pondered the possible implications.
"It's a cruel world Mum," he said at last.
How right he is. And he hasn't even started watching Eastenders yet.

Confessions of a Demented Bag Packer

On any given day, I am not very good at packing groceries. If truth be told, I often completely bypass the entire bag packing thing altogether in favour of simply chucking my shopping from the conveyor belt thingy back into the trolley, sans bags.

Not out of pure laziness you understand (although that may come into it). It's just that I somehow nearly always forget to bring my sturdy reusable bags with me - a shame as I now have so many I could happily sell them and make a tidy profit.

If I do remember bags, I'm one of those people who simply stuff everything in wily nily. I admit it, I have no system - a failing considered a very serious offence by right-minded housekeepers who know their raw meats from their honey roasted turkey slices.

I know, deep down that I should separate the frozen goods from the dairy etc etc. so that it's all far more efficient when it comes to unpacking at the other end, but there is something (I suspect it's hardwired in my DNA) which always prevents me from pulling off such a feat of organisational supremacy.

Bearing all this in mind then, being asked to pack groceries in my local supermarket for a Very Good Cause was not something I was looking forward to.

Bloggers, I was dreading it, and with very good reason as it turns out because to say I was appalling doesn't even come close.

Trouble was, besides the fact that my butter fingers became even more buttery than usual, I also talked too much and paid too little attention to what I was doing.
Thus a packet of firelighters somehow became wedged in with fruit - cue gasps from righteous housekeepers everywhere. Not content with committing the cardinal sin of good bag packing, I also perpetrated possibly the worst abomination of all: I dropped a chicken on the floor. In my defence, I still think the poor anemic bird might have been making a last, doomed break for freedom.

So, next year, when someone mentions bag packing for charity I'm going to make a suggestion: nude calendar anyone? It's bound to be less painful. And that chicken could come in very handy to hide behind if I place it just so......

Revenge of the Goldfish

Watched Marley and Me last night and have realised, too late alas, that instead of berating my own mini Marley / aka Charlie the chocoholic Yorkie I should been chronicling his antics and turning the lot into a feelgood movie!!
But all is not lost because we still have two goldfish - Pixie and Lily - to shamelessly exploit.
All I have to do is get them to caper mischievously and I could be in the money this time next year.
I'm thinking "Pixie and Lily on the Loose: The Movie."
Watch this space........

Chocolate Remorse

This morning, I found the dog lying in his bed, looking bloated and mournful.
The air was thick with remorse and there were five, yes five, Thornton's Praline Melts wrappers scattered by his side (significant as he is a Miniature Yorkshire Terrier and his stomach is probably the size of just one praline).
He had somehow managed to break into the packet and help himself. (This sort of thing is a peculiar talent of his - one Christmas he wrestled the lid off a tin of Roses. He was sicking up gilt wrappers for days.)
I hadn't the heart to remonstrate with him today though - after all, I know exactly how he feels: yesterday my own personal choc-fest began with a Creme Egg for breakfast and ended with a Twirl before bed....... Happy Easter everyone.

Hips on Tour

Today is my fabulous friend Susan's birthday and to celebrate we went for brunch. Just me, her and her Abercrombie and Fitch paper carrier bag - the one with the half naked hunk on the front who is probably, bless him, half our age but who brightened our morning no end. After all, what woman wouldn't want some man candy on her arm for her birthday?
After devouring a massive plate of pancakes with bacon and maple syrup, followed by a Mars Bar krispie slice and two lattes, I was pretty stuffed. Happy, but stuffed.
Off I waddled to a physio appointment for my back, neck and shoulders (many hours spent hunched over a computer means I am a tad on the Quasimodo side).
"Hmmmm....." the physio said as I lay, beached whale like, on the table. "Your right hip is very, very inflamed, did you twist it by any chance?"
"No," I said. "Not unless I pulled something reaching for the remote control."
"That's odd," she replied, puzzled.
And then it came to me.
I hadn't twisted anything: the pancakes, bacon, maple syrup, Mars Bar krispie and two lattes from brunch had simply bypassed my digestive system and gone straight to my right hip, where they nestled comfortably among the sizeable acres of flesh already enjoying a little R&R in that area.
"Ahhhhhh," they probably sighed as they settled in, "home sweet home."

No Nibbling Allowed

I went to a lovely "drinks and nibbles do" last night with a group of Irish booksellers, courtesy of Penguin Ireland. I was looking forward to it very much (a rare night out? yay!) and, to begin with, all went swimmingly.
There I was dolled up, nibbling on divine food and sipping champers (yes, really). It was just like a scene from Sex and the City, except I didn't have a designer handbag and I wasn't wearing couture.
The only fly in the ointment, if there was one, was the poor waiter. Every time he arrived with a new platter of food for us to enjoy, he looked like he was going to have a heart attack with the stress of trying to figure out where to put it. At one point I found myself volunteering to balance a platter on my knees just to calm him down. It didn't seem to occur to him to simply take some of the empty plates away to make some space.
Anyway, I excused myself to go to the loo (which was miles and miles away of course and meant a lot of wobbling on heels I hadn't worn in ages, but I tried not to mind because after all I was a gal about town for the night and the little things don't bother us).
When I eventually got there I did that quick check in the mirror, you know the one to make sure all the makeup hadn't slid off my face.
And that's when I noticed it. Something was winking back at me under the (frankly, very unbecoming) fluorescent lights. Something green.
In a flash, my Sex and the City fantasy came crashing down around my ears.
It was a gherkin. There was a large piece of gherkin lodged firmly between my two front teeth and there was no possible way people hadn't spotted it. I had been chatting to everyone with half a vegetable patch in my gnashers.
Bloggers, I almost locked myself in the cubicle with the utter mortification.
And so the moral of that story is - when you go to a drinks and nibbles reception do not, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, think you can actually eat anything.