Author: rt@hotmail.com.au

Once upon a time I admired her, or rather I envied her. She the beautiful glowing woman, chubby baby in her arms, bright eyed  toddler hiding between her legs and bubbly preschooler holding her hand. Her long maxi dress flowed as people passed by her. She looked happy, relaxed, confident. I’d see her bend over and whisper a sweet “Go play sweetheart” and “I love you” to her preschooler who would smile gently and gracefully stride over to the bucket of toys whilst she, the mother, turned and kissed her baby’s soft cheek and smiled down at her uncertain yet healthily attached toddler.

I was so in awe of her radiance that the screams from her toddler wanting to be held were muffled and as I turned to admire the peaceful play of her preschooler I missed her shriek as her baby ripped an earring from her delicate ear lobe leaving it bloodied and stinging as she seethed in pain. Then as I turn to look back at the commotion now behind me, I failed to see the preschooler fall to the floor in full tantrum, her voice echoing injustices over who’s turn it was to hold the dolly.

Until I became a mother myself I didn’t see the real Mummy Mystique in all her glory. The real Mummy Mystique is the woman who  smiles through the exhaustion. She deals with the isolation being surrounded by little bosses can bring as friends disperse as they are enveloped by their own lives and her social life evaporates. This is replaced by endless hours rocking/singing/walking her baby to sleep, changing a production line of nappies and realising even her alone time is now not her’s alone as the shower has been invaded by her little ones. She realises she may never poo in private again as it is a spectator sport for those with small feet. She has given up on having anything of value as even her lipstick has been fashioned into a drawing instrument. The real Mummy Mystique lies in bed each morning, awake but eyes closed as she counts down the few quiet minutes left before her preschooler bowls through her bedroom door and announces morning has arrived. She wears vomit/snot/chocolate (or is that poo?) on her shirt shamelessly, and hides in the kitchen cupboard as she steals a moment for herself whilst enjoying the last chocolate biscuit in the packet (it’s only the 5th time today). And the Mummy Mystique has countless moments stored in her memory of moments when she realised she really was a mother.

I knew I was truly a mother when whilst driving,  my two year old requested “Mummy, get it. Get iiiiit!”. Twisting my arm backwards with an open hand I felt something slimy being squished into my palm. Yes I had been given the glorious gift of snot! “Thanks sweetie. Umm, next time ask Mummy for a tissue!” Cleaning chunky vomit soup from bed sheets at 2am in the morning, or having a poo explosion mid-nappy change requiring all involved to shower immediately, or watching as our dog laps up creamy projectile milk vomit after a long breastfeeding session, or learning the fine art of changing a boy’s nappy after years of changing girl’s nappies; one word for this scenario ‘fast!’ as I now know what urine tastes like, are all examples of my Mummy Moments.

Does this mean all Mummy moments involve messes and gross bodily ejections? No, not at all. Many more Mummy Moments outweigh these unfortunate ones. For instance, last week my Miss 3 told me “Mummy is my best friend” and kissed my forehead as I knelt down beside her looking into her big blue loving eyes. Or the first giggle Mister 2 month old gave me a few weeks ago after refusing to sleep as he had another agenda to attend to. Or my Miss 2 cuddling me as she held on tightly, something that is rarer the more independent a child is. And of course all the moments they have made us laugh, like the numerous times Miss 2 announces “I farled!” as she lets another one rip, or when Miss 3 spots another “ass hole!” (translation: ants hole) in a very public place.

These are now my treasures, my valuables, the moments I have with each of my children every day. I realise I don’t have to live up to the idol of a well groomed mother who makes transporting three little beings from place to place look effortless, who makes even getting a bundle of kiddies fed and dressed each morning look simple. I realise its okay to just be me and make the most of  each moment with my mini bosses. As I push my hair from my face after being screamed at by three kids in the confines of the car which only serves to amplify the stress bubbles that boil in my blood,  I take another deep breath and I remind myself to just breathe. I know this won’t be forever, and as my Miss 2 grows another 5cm in the past two months, I am reminded again how precious every moment with my babies is. And again, all i need to do is breathe.

If you asked ambitious 12 year old me what I wanted to achieve by 30 I would have replied 1. Be a teacher, 2. Be married and 3. Be a mother. If you asked slightly weathered by life’s obstacles 30 year old me the same question, you would receive the same answer, only with less confidence in my reply as my voice quivers ever so slightly with the knowledge of what mothering does to a person.

Don’t inexpertly assume I don’t love my job, relentless though it can be, I am exactly where I want to be in life. I am a stay at home mum (don’t hold your breath my career oriented feminist mother whom I love dearly), I have an amazing, husband who doubles as a wonderful father to our three kiddies under the age of 4 years, and whilst I don’t teach currently, at least not in the paid sense, I did achieve my teaching degree several years ago. So tick all the boxes, I made it!

Or did I? What has mothering taught me thus far? In the 3 years and 10 months I have been a mother I have noticed many changes occur. I have experienced my heart swelling to triple its size to accommodate all the extra unconditional love I have for my three babies. I have seen the paradigm shift within me where my value for money making and material goals have diminished to the point I no longer have a career and the last item I bought myself was a maternity bra.  I have felt the nervous vibrations accelerate as I worry continuously about my relationship with my defiant Miss 3, or my accident prone Miss 2’s latest graze, or Mister 2 month old’s sleeping habits.

And I have felt the judgement. The judgement of the lady at the grocery shop during a meltdown over chocolate from one of my girls. The judgement from the man who stares as I carry a baby strapped onto my chest and a tired screaming toddler on my hip with a preschooler dragging at my other hand up the hill on our way back from the park. The judgement of the other mother at the mother’s group when I have taken an extra chocolate biscuit to avoid my own meltdown after having three little bosses scream at me the entire car ride there. The judgement from a former friend who upon becoming a mother has found a new game in comparing our kids (she used to compare our handbags, boyfriends, outfits). The judgement from my children’s grandparents as they watch me parent differently to how they remember themselves during this often tumultuous time. And lastly the judgement from myself as I fail to live up to the unattainable golden standard of mothering I set to achieve each and every day.

At the end of the day, when I feel I have spoken but no one has listened, not even the dog as she runs away with the last of my daughter’s bread roll from dinner, I sigh relief as I listen. I listen to the laughter as Miss 3 and Miss 2 play happily together, even if the joyous noise is only brief and is followed by howls of indignation as they unravel each other’s emotions by stealing toys from one another. I listen to Mister 2 month old as he suckles at the breast, gulping and growing, gulping and growing. I listen to my husband sing the same nursery rhyme he has sung every night for the last 1399 nights. I listen to each of my children breathe as they sleep sweetly in their beds. I listen and I smile because yes, I have made it!