The Perfect Mummy

When I found out I was pregnant I vowed to be the perfect mummy. I got off to a good start. I was the perfect pregnant woman; ate healthily, didn’t drink alcohol, rested a lot and talked to my bump about important world events, (EastEnders and Heat magazine). I wasn’t planning on becoming mumsy; I would be the modern day perfect mum. I would be loving and kind, well-dressed with good hair and nice shoes. I would of course be a whiz in the kitchen, cooking delicious home-made fare, and of course, hence the title of this blog, I would not only bake but make jam, chutney and aim to reach the heady heights of Marmalade.

When I found out I was having a boy my quest for perfection continued. I would give him a good name (I think I managed that with Xavier, although there are variants on how it’s pronounced so that could be debateable); I would learn how to play football if necessary and I would dress him very well. For example my mother wanted to buy him dungarees.

‘Oh no,’ I replied, ‘he’s not a 70s Feminist.’

Although of course he would be a modern feminist, like his mother, the perfect mummy would not bring up a chauvinist.

I built his cot and changing table all by myself, chose a pram (which drove me to tears), and I was sure I was the perfect mummy. I just didn’t actually have a baby yet.

Any actual parent will tell you that it’s probably not as easy being perfect when you have a real live baby. Because you say a lot before you actually have a child and then most of it flies out of the window. For example, I said that I wouldn’t be one of those mothers who put the TV on all the time. Well I don’t actually but when I was feeding my baby in the night we did both get a bit addicted to ‘Girls of the Playboy Mansion,’ which I’m guessing isn’t really appropriate.

Parts of being the perfect mum came easily to me. I loved my baby unconditionally and hugs and cuddles and laughter weren’t a problem but on a practical level, perfection took a bit of a dive. When my baby wouldn’t sleep, when my breast milk dried up (I was never very good at breastfeeding which I found devastating), when he cried, it was all my fault. When I left the house with odd shoes on or my top on inside out. When I took my baby out with his bottle ready, but forgot to put the teat in so it leaked everywhere and I couldn’t feed him. Oh I could go on but I won’t.

As he got older, my focus changed. This was where I would really come into my own. I started feeding him real food (well pureed vegetables and fruit), so in the kitchen I would become the perfect mum.

I spent hours in the kitchen armed with my Annabel Karmel cookbook, looking perfect, wearing heels, a cute little apron and a full face of make-up. I was like the archetypal 50s housewife without the husband. Well that was how I was in my mind anyway. Some things shouldn’t be ruined with reality.

To cut a very long story short, my boy mainly rejected my cooking and on advice I tried jars (at least they were organic), which he devoured. As I threw my ice cube trays into the bin I thought I was throwing my perfect mummy status in there with it. 

Two years on I’m still chasing perfection. I have learnt how to dress with my clothes on the right way round and I never go out of the house without make-up, (although that’s more to do with scaring people). I still moan about tiredness but after a bad night I try to make my grumpy toddler laugh, despite my lack of energy. I still cook most of his meals from scratch; I still throw a lot of it away.

I have started baking. Xav and I make biscuits and cupcakes and although they look a bit strange, sometimes they taste good. I still do the DIY (well most of it) in our house, he has a gorgeous room and oh yes, he is a very well-dressed toddler, not that he cares of course.

I work, so there is guilt; surely a perfect mother would spend every waking hour with her child? No, actually we have much more fun because I get the chance to miss him a bit and the time we spend together is ‘quality’, apart from when I do just stick the TV on. Which he would say makes me perfect because he loves television, (I blame Hugh Hefner).

It might have taken me two and a half years to fully realise that perfect I am not. Although it might take a lot more years before I actually stop chasing it. But if there is one thing I’ve learnt about motherhood it’s this; there’s no such thing as the perfect mum, or parent, just lots of people trying their damn best.

Although, of course, my jam making dream continues.

My glamorous life

I decided to start writing this whilst in London visiting my closest girlfriends. We were in the heavenly Gilbert Scott bar in the relatively new St Pancras Renaissance hotel, decadently sipping British ‘Champagne’ Nyetimber as we admired the chandeliers. We reminisced about when I lived in London (not all my friends approved of my moving to Devon and one even thought Devon was in Cornwall) and wrote a dating column among other things. We laughed about how much fun we (they) had through my disastrous dating escapades. Then I reminded them that times had changed.

Oh how times had changed. If you were looking at this snapshot of my life you would think it was quite glamorous. The venue definitely was. My friends certainly were, even I was; dressing well was important to me at all times so in my frock, heels and red lipstick I didn’t look too shabby. But this was a temporary thing (apart from my appearance); this weekend I was taking a break from my busy, permanent job as a single mum. I had left my child in the safe and doting hands of my mother, and taken myself off to catch up with friends and quite simply have fun. Something every hard working parent deserves.

And fun was in abundance. I was with my inner circle:  a TV personality, an Interior designer, two Writers (including me), an Artist, an Astrologer and an Actress. And what was interesting was that we were all single. Among my gorgeous, talented, successful friends not one man by their side was to be had. And while we didn’t dwell on this all night or even seem bothered by it to be honest, we inevitably discussed dating and what we were looking for in a man.

‘I just want a man to put the rubbish out,’ I said.

They all looked at me as if I was insane but actually it was pretty much true. I could have wanted a man to take me to gorgeous dinners, a lover to whisk me away to hotels such as the one we were in, or someone to escort me to plays or the Opera. I could have asked for a man so handsome he took my breath away or made me laugh until it hurt, but no, I just wanted someone to give me a break from putting my rubbish out. Oh it would be great if they also cooked, did the laundry, loved DIY, and did the supermarket shopping.

Because since becoming a mother, since moving to a little cottage in North Devon with my little boy, I had done all of the above. And so much more (I even have my own tool box, which at least is pink). My closest friends would vouch for the fact that I wasn’t known for my practical abilities. I used to frequent supermarkets so rarely that I actually found them exciting. I could mix a Martini, but not make a cake. My freezer used to house a bottle of Vodka and a bag of frozen sweet corn that I put on my ankle when I hurt it (after a few of Vodkas). My idea of having friends round for dinner was ordering a pizza delivery. Domestic I was not.

So whilst we laughed about my lack of ambition when it came to men (I should have at least asked for a rich man who also put the rubbish out), I was so busy in my new found domesticity, and so tired of never getting on top of my chores, that I had forgotten about those lovely things like companionship and passion. Basically I wanted a handyman rather than a boyfriend.

My day to day existence was anything but glamorous. As I said, how times had changed.

When I left the bright lights and my lovely friends I was a little bit sad but more excited to see my little boy again. And when I arrived at my mum’s house and he gave me the biggest smile and the biggest cuddle, I realised that despite everything I had to do this was the only man and all the glamour I needed right now.