I Am Working MamaTuesday, 3 June 2014
When I get up in the morning I fall out of bed having had too little sleep, shuffle through a mountain of washing in the semi darkness and try to put together something that won’t get me fired from my job for looking like a hobo or a hooker.
By the time I walk out of the door, the triumph of positive mental attitude means that I have persuaded myself that I am a poster girl for working mamas everywhere.
My confidence oozes out of every pore as I walk down the street, my stride long and purposeful as I pass shop fronts and check out my reflection.
Then I get into work and look in the mirror.
That’s when I realise I have baby spit all over my shoulder and crusty cereal residue on my cuff.
I am wearing odd socks and pants that come up further than my trousers.
The hanging loops of my cardi are flapping and the hair that looked so cute at home has exploded into fluff.
Now, stuck at work with no access to clothes or hair-dryer, I have to become a master fixer upper, an ignorer of imperfections, a carry on regardlesser.
I am working mama, hear my slightly second hand roar.