I am fighting a losing battle with myself. I fear I am becoming something I really, really don’t want to be. A yummy mummy.
Definitions of yummy mummies (just like definitions of chavs at the other end of the social spectrum) vary. But to me a yummy mummy is an older mum, who wears expensive clothes that look well-worn and countrified, like White Stuff and Joules. They have loud, posh voices. They eat cake (home-made, organic) and drink wine and coffee. And they always, ALWAYS hunt in packs. Usually with lots of organic snacks to dole out to the toddlers in the buggies and hanging round their ankles. Their kids play with wooden toys. They reject supermarkets and eat food from their own gardens, or gorgeous little over-priced rustic delis. And when their boys hit 5 or 6, they play rugby.
Actually, already I’m starting to feel a bit better about this situation. Because I have a few things in common with them, but plenty more not in common.
I have few friends who fall into this category. They are very nice people. But I can only talk to them as individuals, not as part of the big brown boot wearing, dog walking posse.
I started to question myself when I got two things for Christmas. A pair of Hunter wellies (pink, though, not green or black) and a warm hat from Joules. I took a bit of stick from my colleagues for it. Then one of them said she’d like me to turn into ‘one of them’. No way, Jose. That SO ain’t happening.
Still no White Stuff, though. Well, I have got a skirt I wear for work that I got in 2004. Seriously, 2004. Oh, and a dress I got for my Mum and Dad’s ruby wedding. Superdry don’t do dresses suitable for your parents’ ruby wedding. But, apart from that, DEFINITELY no White Stuff. Not now and not in the foreseeable future. If you see me in any, please stage an intervention. Or, failing that, just shoot me.
So I’ve got the wellies and the hat. I’m a middle class, 38 year old mother and I go to work. Would a judge find me guilty or not guilty of the crime of being a yummy mummy?
I like to think not guilty. So my kids play rugby and I might be middle-aged, but I was only 27 when I had my first child. Way too young for a true yummy. I like cake, but I don’t drink coffee or wine. I have nothing against plastic toys or food from supermarkets. I like Tesco. It makes life easier. Every little helps etc. And, most significantly of all, I didn’t do NCT and have never hung out with a bunch of posh women. Or any women, really. Parenting for me has always been a rather solitary experience. Just me and the kids.
But, here’s the thing. I kind of envy them. I’m a little bit jealous of their easy camaraderie and their ability to take over half a park with a load of picnic blankets and sod the rest of the world and the way they casually stroll into Starbucks and whip their boobs out en masse while toddlers wander around nonchalantly dropping half-digested organic carrot sticks on the floor.
So does this mean I will turn into one? Or am I already too late? Will I hover on the sidelines and eventually spend one Sunday too many at rugby and wake up to find myself in head-to-toe White Stuff? Or is there still time to save myself? Quick, hand me that Superdry hoodie before it’s too late.