I admit that I am in the middle of some sort of almost-mid-life crisis. Perhaps it’s because I turned 30 this year. Or because I am an unemployed mum, neither of which I have ever been before. Or because I inadvertently moved to the epicentre of what I like to call the ‘super-mum’ phenomenon; a place where all the other mums have conspired to make it their sole mission to make me feel alienated and inadequate in every possible way. That vibe wears a girl down after a while, and after experiencing a range of emotions from sadness to rage to fully-blown PND to jealousy, I now find myself feeling rather weird. I think I want to be like them.
And so I find myself covertly observing and studying the super-mum species in the style of a 90’s cartoon private detective, watching their every move and admiring their glossy hair and immaculate look. How do they do it I ask myself. The answer to this question, the findings of my research, the holy grail of super-mum-ness, Boden.
Browsing their website it all suddenly becomes clear. Beautiful women, successful looking, well groomed, co-ordinated. I realise I’ve found it, my way in, the secret super-mum bible. I can’t believe it! No wonder they don’t want anything to do with me in my ancient Tesco dresses and the bits of maternity wear I can still get away with. What a fool I’ve been all this time, thinking its acceptable to carry on in this way. My poor baby, my poor poor child, being seen out with me like this. I fill my basket, I hold my breath. I can change. I will change.
But then, something, a little doubt. The women on the website don’t really look that much like me. I haven’t noticed any blobby bits or hairy knees or chipped nail varnish. Hmmm. Actually, now I look closer, none of these women have porridge in their hair or bingo wings. They are posing with children but their lack of sagging stomach makes me think the children didn’t come out of them. Perhaps these amazing clothes won’t actually look that good on my size 18 fat, flabby, pasty and disproportionate frame. Perhaps despite wearing the clothes, the super-mums will still know (I’m just an imposter).
Anyway, away intrusive thoughts. It’s entirely likely through wearing the badge and expressing my devotion to the one true god (Bod?) that I’ll be welcomed with open arms. We’ll laugh together as they tell me their first impressions of me, or the time when they saw my breast pad fall out in the children’s centre, or the time they saw my sitting on my own and crying. Haha we’ll say, what a twat you looked doing all that in your supermarket scruffs.
I am excited for my parcel of clothes to arrive and for my new life to begin. Who knows, now I have spent money on useless disposable bits of fabric that I will probably ruin in the first wash, maybe someone will actually speak to me! Fingers crossed friends, I’ll let you know how it goes!