Mothers (not) at war

Plenty is said about the so-called mummy wars that are supposedly battled out between child-toting women everywhere. If you believe what you read us mothers fight over everything. From feeding, to sleeping, to working, to not working, to dummies, to organic, to not organic, to bottles, to toys. If there is a choice we’ve got battle lines firmly drawn. But do you want to know something? We don’t. Us mothers might be at war but we’re in the trenches together. It’s our children, really, that we are at war with and in that battle other mums (and dads) are our fiercest allies.

Steering little people towards a civilised existence complete with manners, clothes, food, rest, water and stimulation is a long war of sorts. Each day, and if we’re unlucky, each night, we wake up, we assume the same position on the battlefield, usually at the frontline, and armed with consistency, patience and strength, we go into combat with our small antagonists. Breakfast? No! Sleep? Says who?! Sit quietly? No way! Terrorise Mum? Yay! Whilst we inevitably concede battles along the way we try to remember we are in fact winning the war. It’s a ‘please’ here, a ‘thank you’ there, falling asleep without protest, mastering a task like getting dressed. 

Slowly but surely, battle by battle, obstacle by obstacle, day by day, there are signs that we are succeeding in our crusade. Signs that the little lights in our lives are progressing towards independence. And as we go, our staunchest allies, our most reliable sounding boards, our sharpest tacticians, are the other parents on the field with us. This is as true for dads as it is for mums but, for whatever reason, it’s mothers who get lumped with the war tag. And today, in the supermarket, once again, I was reminded how far from true that is.

One of the things that has quite genuinely amazed me about motherhood is the solidarity between mothers. The camaraderie is amazing and it should be celebrated. The support I receive, and that I see others receive, from all sorts of mothers, in all sorts of ways, is breathtaking. Sometimes it’s from mothers who are in the trenches at the same time and sometimes it’s from mothers who were there long ago but remember it well. Sometimes it’s as simple as a knowing glance from another mum collecting her child from daycare, knowing that arsenic hour is about to start. Sometimes it’s being able to send or receive a text from a comrade saying “My toddler’s driving me crazy”. Sometimes it’s a text sent or received from a comrade saying “I get it”. Sometimes it’s a mother recounting a day or moment in time that was so hard they remember it thirty years later. Sometimes it’s a coffee with a mum who is honest enough to tell you that they’re bored and frustrated and that they haven’t slept in 8 months. Sometimes it’s a friend saying “Drop your kids here and go to the osteopath.” Sometimes it’s bumping into another mum in the supermarket, like I just did, and chatting for 10 minutes about our children, our work and our lives and walking away feeling better for having had the conversation.

Solidarity comes in all shapes and sizes but no matter how it’s packaged, underneath, at its core, is understanding. And when it comes to us humans, is there anything quite as lovely as being understood? I think not. We don’t necessarily have to walk in someone’s shoes to understand them; I have lots of friends and family without children and I’d never discount the support and understanding they lend me. It’s just that in any realm – whether it’s parenting, running marathons, managing staff, coping with illness - there is comfort in the unspoken understanding that exists when two people have walked the same path. In my three years in the mother-hood I have never craved that understanding more which is lucky because, thanks to all the mothers in this world, I’ve never felt it more either. And you don’t hear that enough. So the next time you hear or read someone bang on about us mothers being at war, remind them of this. WE ARE ON THE SAME TEAM!!!

Speaking of which it’s time for me to return to the trenches as I march our Misses towards everyone’s favourite battlefield. Bathtime! Dinner! Bed! May the strength (and wine) be with me.