You know the best thing about being a WAHM? I have double – DOUBLE – the time parents who go out to work have! I know, right – it’s incredible. I’m so lucky to have such an insanely perfect life, around my perfect children and my perfect pretend-job.
Our perfect week starts at 5am on a Monday morning, my husband having already left the house to hone his perfect body at the gym before heading to work. I get up with the girls after having had the perfect night’s sleep (because I’m so perfect I can function perfectly well on a broken 5 hours). I don’t even allow my daughter’s stinky nappy to upset our lovely morning, because her poonamis are perfect. And when my big girl tries to help (because – obvs – she’s perfect) and accidentally smears poo on my bed, I don’t complain because that would be ungracious.
We go downstairs and I ignore the mess that greets me, because despite always having being a clean freak and a neat freak (because I’m perfect, and nothing to do with OCD and genuine anxiety about STUFF everywhere), I don’t lose sight of how lucky I am to have such a wonderful home and family.
I get breakfast ready whilst Elfin perches perfectly on my hip, and I don’t acknowledge the sciatica because that’s, like, allowing negative energy to enter my perfect life.
I try not to focus on the guilt which threatens to engulf me for allowing Pixie to be babysat by Paw Patrol (again), or the fact that we eat our breakfast on the sofa EVERY day – even though I swore that would stop once Elfin was on solids. Our sofa is perfect after all, so we may as well enjoy it.
I snatch moments during the morning to check my phone for work emails and respond if necessary, which only marginally interrupts our perfectly harmonious morning. When I’m not able to watch Pixie watching TV as I’m temporarily unavailable (attempting to sort through the mounting mountain of insurmountable washing), I dilute my guilt with sugary snacks for both of us.
Her tantrums barely register because her whining is pitch perfect.
My favourite is when I need to get us all ready. My children think I’m so damn perfect that they can’t bear to be away from me for even the time it takes for me to do a wee: I perch on the loo whilst balancing my baby on my knee, and my big girl sits on my feet so we can all enjoy Girl Time and not have one single second apart. My subsequent efforts to get in the shower and apply some make-up (to maintain my perfect façade) are thwarted for only the initial twelve attempts before I achieve success. My life is perfect.
After approximately two perfect hours getting ready, punctuated by feeding Elfin, playing with Pixie, placating both of my girls (and repeat…and repeat. And repeat.) – FINALLY we can vacate our perfect home.
Nap time comes round far too quickly: for Pixie, natch – for Elfin does not sleep. Ever. I have mastered – perfectly – the art of enticing my older child to lay down and sleep, whilst valiantly attempting to keep the small one from disturbing her: that, my friend, is what boobs are for. It takes only six attempts and 50 minutes – an (almost) perfect routine, I’m sure you’ll agree.
Finally – FINALLY – I have the perfect opportunity to do some work for my perfect job; just as soon as Elfin takes a nap. Except there’s an overlap with Elfin’s perfect opportunity for a marathon cluster feed. Plus – of course – she doesn’t ever sleep. But that’s okay; at least I can use my phone to create some (im)perfect notes ready to be turned into perfect blog posts.
Or, perhaps, I could find the perfectly orchestrated image (out of the 40 I took earlier) that can be heavily edited to look beautiful and perfectly natural: the perfect family.
This is What the Perfect Life Looks Like…
I mustn’t forget to start preparing the perfect dinner, for my perfect husband – and pick up some more of his favourite handwash. And launder some clothes for preschool. And touch base with Sarah (in order to be the perfect friend) – oh, and send my nephew a birthday card to be the perfect auntie (and sister). And make that doctor’s appointment; and bake that cake; and book the MOT; and empty the nappy bin and return those library books and bag up those clothes for charity and cut the baby’s nails. And search the playroom for the toy that Cheryl’s son lost among the plethora of kindly bestowed gifts from the grandparents. My life is perfect.
Soon dinner and bedtime come around – and my perfect smile remains frozen in place – because I’m a WAHM and my life is perfect. I fit my work around my family, and it’s all such a breeze.
Because – don’t forget – I have double the time parents who go out to work have.
So I easily find the time in my perfectly empty schedule to do my perfect pretend-job which earns me real money but is only ever pretend-respected: I note down ideas; write; edit; take photos; edit; implement SEO; send pitch emails; manage my social media channels; occasionally (but not often enough) vlog; create pins for my posts – and field unsolicited begging emails expecting me to work for free because despite my pretend-work only being worthy of pretend-respect in many instances, it’s always worth a shot…
But most of all – MOST OF ALL – I continue, unfalteringly, to be the perfect unruffled wife and mother.