“Why would I ever want to be a mum?”
I was asked that question at work last week. About seven of us were sitting in a small room having a meeting and a 27-year-old colleague asked me that, as she scanned the morning news across the internet globe.
“This woman from Louisiana says she regrets having kids, this woman says she has lost her identity and her career went down the toilet and this woman is living with constant pain from childbirth.”
The list did go on. A smorgasbord of negative stories about motherhood.
How hard it is. The daily struggle and juggle and muddle. The monotony. The (mainly) snakes and ladders game we play with our careers. The physical changes to your body that stick. The constant admin duty both mental and physical. The worry. The housework. Post natal depression. The dark facts and the figures from the latest study where mothers come out on the bottom.
The helicopter parents. The dysfunctional parents. The parents who split up because parenting is just so bloody hard. The parents who stay with each other for the children’s sake and no one in the family is happy. The sacrifices. The expense. The mum being abused by her teen daughter. The mum whose drug addicted son steals from her. The fact you end up eating food that has been spat out because you are at an acquaintance’s house and it’s too hard to find a bin. The fact you completely lose it, you actually stamp your feet on the floor, over a water glass being left on the floor.
The alcoholic mums. The exercise addict mums. The plastic surgery mums. The depressed mums. The selfish mums because the world is overpopulated already – you narcissists who just want to create someone in your “own image”. The mums who aren’t selfish enough.