Saturday 14 May 2016

What kind of mom are you?

Not too sure? Then read my handy guide to find out.

1. The sanctimom. These are the people who are going bring down Monsanto, so they deserve a giant 'thank you'. But as the Universe (which, being vegan, they refer to gratefully with the regularity of a metronome) is all about balance, they are inadvertently wreaking havoc in the process. For example, they are also destroying the wheat- and sugar farming industries with their sugar and gluten-free baking practices. Also, they are destroying the self-esteem of those of us who thought that it was enough just to avoid viennas, and balk at the idea of grinding organic flaxseed for our tiny darlings' breakfast (I assure you, there really are people who do this.) For example, last week I ran into a mom arranging the cupcakes she had made for her son's birthday ring. "Wow, did you get those from the home industry?" I asked, admiring the intricate web of blue chocolate that had been spun around the Spiderman motif. "No," she tinkled happily, "made them myself!" (I could actually see the exclamation mark shimming in the air between us.) I thought back to my own offering for Leya's last birthday ring: cupcakes purchase from Checkers (not even Woolies) with a distinct bum-shaped impression, because she insisted on sitting on them and I couldn't be arsed (haha) to go out and buy more. "It really was no trouble," The Good Mom trilled. "Well...maybe it was just the gluten-free batch that added on some extra time." Dashed, I made a conscious effort to remind myself of my good points. However, since I had not even brushed my teeth yet that morning, I was hard-pressed to think of  myself as a success as either a parent or a person.

2. Moms gone wild. The other night, I went for a girls' dinner. One glass of wine turned into two and - wait, you thought there was more? No, that's it. No tequila, no vodka, not even a third glass of wine. Still, what I had was enough to have me telling the Uber driver all about what was lurking underneath my bra. I might even have shed a small, dronk verdriet tear as I confessed to him that things weren't quite what they used to be. Fortunately, I stopped just before I showed him the evidence. I know I'm not alone in this. Just yesterday I asked one of the moms at my nursery school how her girls' weekend was. "Crazy!" she said. "There were girls dancing, girls skinny-dipping - it was all happening." Another incident brought home the commonness of this phenomenon. I was having breakfast with my friend, June, and asked her about her weekend at AfrikaBurn. "It was weird," she answered. "There were a lot of people there who looked like they just didn't belong, all doing coke and talking about how many drugs they had taken - kind of like people in high school bragging about how much they've drank." Don't judge, I pleaded with her. Those people are probably parents with small babies who managed to find a babysitter and, like a convent girl released for the weekend, or a Jewish person facing a seafood buffet, they just can't help themselves.

3. The judgey mom. Hands up - who hasn't judged other moms before? Uh uh uh you over there - don't deny it. I know occupied a front row seat in this category from the minute my first baby was handed to me. Brandishing my homemade lentil puree, I tutted to myself about the mothers who Actually Bought Their Children Purity. I frowned upon the users of walking rings, compromising their children's hip flexors and ability to form healthy adult relationships or do maths. I shook my head when friends reprimanded their children in harsh voices. Don't they know they are crippling the tiny angels' self-esteem for life, I wondered? Then I had my second child. Just the other day I found myself in the shoes of those I had judged, when I made my seven-month-old baby cry and every mother in Dis-Chem turned to me, anger and hate in their eyes, ready to pelt me with their prescriptions. Also, by now I have read enough 'helpful' mommy blogs to roll my eyes when I am reminded to be mindful, and to lose the tech. Please. If you have never counted the minutes to bedtime while sneaking a peak at your cell, you're probably flying your unicorn while you read this. 

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