I sat on the sofa finishing the first of many bags of mini eggs, wrinkling my nose in amusement at the endless tips on fashion and diet spoon-fed to Mums across the country.
Daytime TV royalty nod at each other sincerely as they discuss their flabby upper arms and praise the wonder that is a long sleeved frock.
Not for the first time I feel relieved to have sons not daughters, boys whose childhood will, I hope, be full of honest muddy mischief and out door fun rather than a bizarre pressure to live their younger years as a dress rehearsal for adulthood. Not that the morning chatter of woman on TV is aimed at children but I can't help but note that boys are still relatively free from the constant barrage of perfection women are bombarded with. Although I whole-heartedly believe I am happier with painted fingers and toes, so who am I to judge.
Aforementioned nail polish does not stay un-chipped for long thanks to the constant washing of bottles and wiping of floors and retrieving of toys, not forgetting the dirty laundry that has quadrupled thanks to a little seasonal sickness. (Vomiting Bug, not just over indulgence!)
Being a Mum is not like having an office job where, when the chores and bores get too much, you can sneak off to the loo and hide away from it all for a few sanity-restoring minutes. Instead, when you most want to shut the door, stuff toilet roll in your mouth to stifle frustrated 'I want to quit' screams you have to do the opposite. You have to run to the loo when you can't wait a minute longer, open the toilet door wide and summon enough enthusiasm to yell 'old McDonald' in a convincingly upbeat way at the top of your voice in the hope that it distracts your children from creating too much mayhem until you return.
In spite of this, even if resignation were an option, I wouldn't quit. I might try and modify the hours to bring it in line with legal working time directives, but I wouldn't quit. Even though in an office job the people you work with on a day-to-day basis can wipe their own bottoms, and noses, and eat their lunch without the need for industrial cleaners to clear up the aftermath.
I'd still rather spend the day with my poo-bottomed, snotty-nosed, messy-eating rascals. Because they make me laugh. And they make cute 'aaah' noises when they cuddle their favourite teddy bears. And sometimes they look up from their toys and come and see me. Because they want to. And they pull themselves up and smile and no pay cheque in the world can beat that feeling. Especially when they grab a knee each and I have a lap full of my babies.
Carrying them around and picking them up and putting them down all day saves money on a gym membership. Maybe the women on TV who are worried about their flabby arms could come and give me a hand. Twin weightlifting all day is a far more effective solution than a long sleeved frock. In fact I think the 200 or so 'reps' conducted before 11am mean I have earned a few more mini eggs with my morning coffee.
Katy Hymas - Mum to two gorgeous twin boys
February 1, 2011 | 
The 'Other' in Mother
