A friend called me “supermum” the other day. I love her, I know her heart and I appreciate the compliment, but it has been a comment I have struggled with for the rest of the week.
Maybe it is because I have an online forum where I share so openly, where I tell you boldly that my theme for this year is “capacity”. Maybe it is because of the small filtered part of my life that you see via this blog (and let’s be honest everything on the net is filtered). You could think that I’m supermum. And that makes me really uncomfortable because I wouldn’t want anyone to think that at all.
Overall, I try to be positive in my posts; my aim with this blog and with my other writing is to encourage others no matter what their life looks like. But I really don’t want there to be a false sense of my reality here. I am writing this with a sink full of dirty dishes waiting for me, floors to be cleaned from the kid’s dinner, the playroom is strewn with toys, there is washing still on the line (at 730pm), and so far my dinner has been two pieces of chocolate slice and a bag of crisps.
I am like any other mum, who gets up and deals with her children the best she knows how, who sometimes fails miserably at that task and loses her temper so badly she has to apologise profusely. I am like any other mum who worries about her children day in, day out, about whether they are eating enough or too much, about their friends, their learning and their emotions. I am like any other mum who is continually juggling the constant cleaning with time for playing with her kids. I am like any other mum struggling to manage the household schedule of birthday parties, family events, swimming, dance and the (very) occasional date night with her husband.
If I am super mum then without a doubt so are the rest of you, who do not have such a public forum but are doing everyday the best you know how, like me. But really I don’t want to be called supermum. I am mum, and that is plenty enough for me.