Trying To Be Super

I'm only just beginning to admit it to myself, but I think I am trying to be Supermom.

I've been warned about trying to achieve this fictional status. I know this woman does not exist. But little by little I'm noticing how much I still aim to be her.

I first realised it the other day when Scott and I had a silly little argument. See, Scott has been great about my mothering and wifely skills. He never complains when the dishes aren't done or the floors aren't hoovered. (Possibly he just doesn't notice.) He has been really understanding about how much time caring for a baby takes. Yet the other day when he said, 'I can't take a bath with all your hair still in it', I lost it. I was so upset! I started going off about how hard I try and how hard it is to keep everything together and looking good and I'm sorry if I've been too busy feeding your daughter and changing her nappies to clean out the bathtub. And then of course I cried in my pillow while Fifi sucked away at my boob.

The truth is, I desperately want to prove that I can do this. I don't know who I'm trying to prove it to though. Or why. It's almost even as if I'm trying to prove to God Himself that mothering and housekeeping is such a full time job, and yet I'm so good at it, that I shouldn't have to go back to work. It's like, if I can prove to the Powers That Be that I can be an amazing mom and an amazing housewife, then the PTB will rain down an extra income out of nowhere so I can stay at home and do what I love and do best.

For the most part, I genuinely am coping. I manage to get dressed and bathed almost every day. Some days I even fix my hair. And if it's a big occasion, I even get make up on! The laundry keeps relatively well up to date (at least the nappies get washed), the dishes, with the help of my wonderful husband, get done most of the time, and the baby is thriving. I even manage to get her out and about nearly every day. My outlook is good and my sense of humour is in tact. I think I really am doing well.

But I keep having to prove it anyway. To someone. I don't know who to. God? Scott? My parents? Fifi? Myself?

And on that note (and with Fifi asleep) I need to go tidy the kitchen. And make some lunch. And take my vitamins. Because Supermom always remembers her and her family's vitamins.