The Yummy Mummy Epidemic: The Loss of the Right to Frump.

The recent celebrity baby-boom has resulted in an onslaught of tabloid covers featuring celebrity mothers minutes from the delivery room, posing in string bikinis. Umbilical cord still attached. Articles brimming with tips and tricks to lose the baby weight and promises of transforming you back to your lean-mean-pre-partum-machine in 6-weeks or less appeal to pregnant and post-natal alike. In their sleep-deprived, hormonal and all-round fragile state this seems like perfect logic. Oh, the poor, gullible prima gravida. Of course I’ll lose the weight breastfeeding, of course I’ll maintain an exclusive diet of seaweed and acai berry. I’ll schedule the training for my marathon during naptime, before preparing nutritionally balanced, low-fat, low-carb, organic gourmet meals.

Pfft.

 One fact, failed to mention, is the nanny, personal trainer, dieticians, hair and makeup artist, and the oh, so flattering lighting (Funny thing, the light, when I wear my bikini, is not so flattering). I, too, have fallen victim to its unattainable charms; with my bugaboo pram, my designer nappy-bag (the same as Angelina’s!) in the vain hope that I, yes I, will be the posh mom. The M.I.L.F (forgive me), the one who still had it. I will be the one with rock-hard abs 6-weeks post partum. I will make it a priority to blow-dry and flat-iron my hair daily (and it will, it will look like Victoria’s, contrary to what my stylist says). Bygone are the days when it was acceptable – nay, expected – for a haggard mother to trudge to the post office, grumpy child in tow, with sudocrem on her breakout, wearing yesterdays pureed carrots on her reflux covered jumper. I would not be that woman.

Fast-forward 3 months later.

         If I can fit in a shower between a load of laundry, making supper, (admittedly, non-nutritionally balanced, high-fat, high-carb, non-organic and definitely not gourmet) and sterilizing bottles in the thirty seconds that my son will nap, the day has been a success. My hair has grown from Victoria Beckham-esque into Bon Jovi circa 1988.And you know? I’m kind of okay with it. Sure, I sometimes I wish my stomach has a little more concave than convex, and pictures of my bikini-worthy body from honeymoon in Cuba evoke a pang of nostalgia, but really, I have more important things to do.

Now, I’d better go, I have to get to the post-office, maybe I’ll wash off the sudocrem off my chin. But then again, maybe I won’t.