I’m a wee bit sad.
You see, some five years ago I was a uni student, wedding function co-ordinator and organiser and sometimes waitress, mother to funny, clever, challenging four year old, and some crazy two year old that had this weird condition where he was able to wake at 6.00am every morning and be cheery! Cheery! Who does that?
Anyhoo, I was also battling the alluring call of a deep dark pit, promising to wrap me in a comfy cosy doona and allowing me to lie in the foetal position for days on end … It was tempting. Oh, so tempting.
Alas, my brain wasn’t prepared to settle for that, and it had me up and about, searching for some kind of support. Actually, I was a member on a forum for business mums, with an idea I had and wanted to develop (you know, in my spare time), where I was getting some support, but not what I needed. It was mostly support for working form home. Also, whilst a great community at the time, they had a “no swearing” rule, and I thought “what the fuck?” and, well, I needed some parenty type support where people actually admitted to things being a bit shit at times.
I was, to be honest, going to kill myself if I had to endure one more “he did a poo on the toilet – squee!”, like they were the only kid ever in the world to poo in a toilet – even without the looming depression. Seriously, who needs to listen to that shit? I just couldn’t get into that kind of parent-speak. It was boring!
Worse, I read, on a “parent support forum”, a women who was expression what I felt. Only slightly more mild than what I felt. She wasn’t coping. She didn’t want to be around her kids. She just couldn’t stand the crying and whinging. She just wanted to get in a car and run away and leave them there. And possibly not come back.
I felt a connection. A relationship. I understood what she was feeling, and felt almost … normal.
Until I read the responses; how could she think like that about her children; what sort of mother was she that would even contemplate leaving her children alone; she should put her children first; she should be there for her children at all times; she should love and nurture them; she was a terrible parent; she was a bad mother … and I felt so alone … and wrong … and inadequate … and bad.
Sadly, this seemed to be the common theme; be there for your kids, no matter what; if you were angry/frustrated/sick of them, then you were a bad mother … and also, you weren’t allowed to swear. Nor, it seemed, were you entitled to a sense of humour.
So, I did what any desperate enough would do, and I created a wesbite; a support forum for Mums where you could swear, joke, laugh and, most importantly, be totally and completely honest and not only not be ostracised for it, but be supported in what you were actually saying. And probably laughed at.
I registered a domain name, I sorted some hosting and I got me a logo and branding. This was it:
This logo is the reason I’m a little sad. These real mums have ben with me from day dot, in one form or another. Until this morning. When I relaunched my website – Real Mums, and it’s ongoing community – sometimes called Bad Mother’s Club, for those who feel like and