Mummy rage is not something women talk about a lot.
Road rage, trolley rage, queue rage, you-name-it rage, sure. We’ve swapped stories at barbeques and in workplaces about watching a man jump out of his car and punch a lane changer’s windscreen, or a neighbour screaming at another neighbour for Sunday morning leaf blowing.
But mummy rage? It’s not so public. The witnesses are usually the smallest people in the house. Sometimes they can’t even speak. Or they are teens, and considered rather “overly dramatic” retellers of events.
Listen to Zoe exdplain what Year 12 for a kid is really like. (Post continues.)
The thing is, mummy rage is not meant to happen because Mummys are soft and cuddly and full of kisses and burp rainbow bubbles and cut sandwiches into love hearts and remember everyone’s birthday, and eat the burnt bit of toast, and skip for no reason.
They don’t scream until their voice goes hoarse.
They don’t smack before they’ve even registered they’ve smacked.
They don’t say something nasty to a teen, just to be nasty.
They don’t storm down the road away from their families, jaws clenched.
They don’t snap at another mum at the swings.
But mummy rage happens. (Not being an adult English aristocrat walking around with a teddy bear in one hand and scotch in the other, I think it’s time to call it mum rage).
I've heard about it. I've seen it. I've done it.