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.
