I’m not a big fan of the word mummy. Mummy blogger? Please don’t ever call me that. But the term I hate most is “yummy mummy”.
Yummy mummy is basically telling me that even though I’m now a mother, I have to make sure I’m still sexy.
That means squeezing into tight jeans and heels, and always making sure my hair and makeup are done, whether I’m picking up the kids from school or shopping for toilet paper. It’s like on top of all my other jobs – maths tutor, short-order cook, dog walker, etc – I’m supposed to add another one. Hot chick.
Sorry. I can’t be bothered. I just don’t care whether guys on a building site whistle as I walk by (although I still appreciate a good-looking tradie turning up to fix my plumbing). Anyway, I don’t have the time to look hot anymore.
In my pre-kids days, I had plenty of time. I would wander through clothes shops for hours on end, go to the gym a few times a week, and apply mud masks on quiet afternoons at home.
Now, I’ve got other things to do. Things I’d rather do.
Oh, sure, I still get my hair coloured and put on a bit of mascara, but it’s a token effort. I barely glance in the mirror before I leave the house. I still buy clothes, but now it’s not just about what looks good. I’ve discovered the joys of hoodies (no more cold ears), mid-rise jeans (no more chilly midriff) and ugg boots (no more icy feet). I don’t spend the winter shivering anymore.
Not that my pre-kids wardrobe has gone to waste. My leopard skin hot-pants got chopped up to make little furry cut-out cats for my daughter, while my son decided that my wooden jewellery box was actually a pirate’s treasure chest full of precious gems.
My children don’t dress like a yummy mummy’s children. That’s probably because I always let them choose what they put on. Over the past week I’ve seen my daughter wearing my new jumper as a pair of leggings, a tea towel as a superhero cape, and fluffy pink bed socks with sandals. I can’t imagine anyone following her if she had her own Instagram account.