I was lounging around on the couch the other night, much like a turtle stuck on its back, albeit with a glass of chilled white wine in its paw (or whatever it is turtles have).
I had completed a day of chaos; school lunches for three, dropping off and collecting various children from various educational institutions at various start and finish times, written several scripts, an informative article and a blog post in the time between, performed some intermediate technical task, counselled a friend enduring a mini-crisis, avoiding the ironing and had just completed preparations for a highly nutritious and satisfying evening meal for the family.
I was, I felt, entitled to a bit of a sit down, wallowing on my back, glass of wine in hand, mind numbing television flashing before my eyes.
Miranda Kerr, in all her gorgeousness, was appearing on whatever show I had the TV tuned to. She was introduced as blah, blah, something else and “super mum”.
(I wasn’t particularly listening, pretty sure “supermodel” or similar was in there, but whatevs.)
My ears pricked up at the term “supermum” because, first and foremost, I hate it, and secondly, I’m always curious to see what, exactly, a “super mums” is.
And whether I should pursue my dream of ever becoming one.
Mostly, I was shattered, because a friend, not hours before this, had called me one.