I’m a creative in an ad agency. And a Mum. Advertising that targets Mammas is way off the mark. They’d don’t get us, not even close. These are the Mums I know. This is the reality.
Don’t tell me how to bring up my kid. No one knows them better than me.
I’m on social media. A lot. Too much. If there was an ‘Instagrammers Anonymous’ I’d be there.
I grew and gave birth to a human. Treat me with the respect I deserve.
That competitive Mum thing? It’s over. Really.
I surround myself with an army of other Mums. We Whatsapp in the middle of the night. And cry till we laugh.
I don’t want to talk about pooey nappies. “Poo-nami” actually makes a me want to rip my eyes out.
Never play the ‘time is slipping away’ card. Yup my kids are growing up too fast. But right now every hour until bedtime feels like an eternity.
“My little soldier”? “My little princess”? Bit creepy.
Get media use right. I flick through a magazine approximately every 5 months at the hairdressers.
I have never. Will never. Walk around in easy-fitting linen trousers and a blouse. (check-out @dresslikeamum: this is what we wear)
I more than likely have sick on my shoulder.
I might actually have forgotten to have clean my teeth.
And I’m wearing the post-labour pants that I swore I’d throw away.
Aspirational yes. Unachievable no. My house is covered in plastic toys and half-eaten biscuits, your white clutter-free set makes me feel anxious.
Yes we drink tea. But its probably cold. We’d rather it was wine.
Make us laugh. My sense of humour wasn’t removed at my baby’s birth.
Make something decent. If it’s good we’ll be your best ambassador. If it’s not we will sniff you out and take you down.
Want my attention? Entertain my kids. An app that shuts-them-up for 20 minutes so I can lie-in. Or even just a ballon will do.
We are NOT our Mothers. They rock. But we are doing it our way.
My husband doesn’t walk in the door and we greet each other with a kiss. I hand over my baby with the glazed look of a mad woman.
And, get this, he does some child care too. And I have a career. Modern eh?
1001 brands are trying to talk to me after I give birth. Coupons in the Bounty Pack are a waste of time. I’m bruised, battered and sleep-deprived. Saving 20p on baby shampoo isn’t going to cut it.
One Born Every Minute is bullshit. Lazy scheduling.
We don’t just sit and watch endless daytime TV, ok just Storage Hunters, but only because we’re breastfeeding.
Yummy Mummy? F*** off. I want to be a Sexy. Smart. Sassy. Fierce. Foxy. Fabulous Mummy.
And, as it goes, sending a charmingly handsome young chap round to persuade me to sign-up to a veg box is embarrassingly effective.