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.