Mumfession of a No Fun Mum

Michelle Appleby - 22 Jul 18

I have a mumfession. I’m not a fun mum. I wish I was, but I just don’t seem to have it in me.

We all know that there are days when being a mum is not much fun. In fact, there are days when being a mum is NO fun at all. We don’t like to say it out loud but it’s pretty much universally accepted as fact. (It’s also universally accepted that if you say it IS fun all the time, you are a sociopathic liar and/or a total weirdo…)

But what happens when being a mum becomes so overwhelming and serious that it renders us incapable of fun? Or even a smile? I’m not talking about life and death stuff, as, thankfully, I am truly fortunate to have two healthy babies (and I hope it will remain that way for a long time to come). Nor am I meaning the daily irritations of constant and contradictory tweenage demands that leave even the most patient of us brain dull and utterly disinterested in the perfect arrangement of mini cheddars. (NB. Brain dullness is worse than brain deadness as victims are acutely aware of their limited brain function but incapable of self improvement). And it’s not about the self generated white noise of “sit at the table/eat your dinner/tidy your toys/no you can’t have a magazine/we aren’t going to the toy aisle/come back here….”

I mean when being a mum is just too serious: the day to day, all day, every day mumming. I’ll tell you what happens: you become the “no fun mum”, that’s what.

Pre-kids I was often the life and soul of the party (except that one time I peaked too soon, passed out and then held court from my bed when I woke around 1030pm…). Nowadays, I can barely be bothered going to the party, never mind being it’s life support machine! I find small talk tedious and thoroughly disinteresting. I can barely remember my own name, let alone anyone else’s (new people have no chance). I carefully calculate my departure time before I’ve even arrived, based on the hours of sleep required that night (woe betide anyone who attempts a long goodbye!). And having a bloody good belly laugh is utterly beyond me.

But this isn’t limited to parties that start after my bedtime. I’m the “no fun mum” all the time. Especially with my kids.

I love my kids so much. I do (and would do) absolutely anything and everything for them. They are my reason for being and have given me a sense of love and contentment that I have never before experienced. But despite all the love and fulfilment, some days I can barely raise a smile, let alone, don an Elsa dress and bellow “Let it go” at top volume. Most mums worry about “accidents” when laughing too hard. I don’t have to. My pelvic floor is never giggle-tested. Somehow, somewhere, mumming got really serious and I lost my sense of fun in the process.

Here are some of the things that my pair think are fun and I do not:

Running about naked. I don’t do naked. I never have. It makes people cold. I definitely don’t do cold. And don’t get this clean freak started on bare bottoms on the leather sofa. That’s a whole range of bottomly fluids I don’t need or want to sit on!

Bogies. Picked. Flicked. Eaten. Wiped on sheets. Lying around. Given as gifts. Apparently, this is hilarious if you’re 3 and 7. To me, this is an issue for infection control and needs immediate extermination in a hazmat suit. Or, a tissue.

“Performing arts” when getting ready for school or Nursery. I would mind less if these art forms involved putting clothes ON. Usually they involve taking clothes OFF. The ones I’ve just put on them.

Spilled milk. All over the breakfast table. Just as you are sitting down to eat your own breakfast. This has actually been known to make me cry. Lots.

Repeating the same (unfunny) jokes over and over. And over. It wasn’t funny the first time, it isn’t going to be funny the eleventieth time! (Note to Holly-this means repeating Harrison’s joke is even less funny than him telling it first time round!) The volume and length of my fake laugh is inversely proportionate to the number of times I’ve heard the joke.

Emptying toy boxes. Kids searching for favourite toys, finishing others and so a fantastical game begins! I just see clutter, soon to be broken toys and sore feet and a massive argument over tidying up later.

Jumping on my bed. When I’ve just made it. I like my throw perfectly lined up and my cushions in colour order. My children do not. They prefer the cushions on the floor and give zero hoots about quilt lines. I know I have totally turned into my grandfather on this one. He hated us bouncing on his beds-fair enough, as we bounced so hard we broke a bed leg and, forever more, the bed was propped up with a paint can! Just comb me over and call me Papa.

Spitting out dinner. Especially a dinner I’ve spent ages cooking! This causes hysterics at the table. And repeat performances. Apparently chewed up chicken and saliva coated mush is just too funny. Frankly, it gives me the boak.

Wrestling. That’s just a broken neck waiting to happen. There’s no fun in broken necks. Or any other broken bones.

Playing with wee figures. My kids love it. I find it such hard work. My ideas are (apparently) a bit too rubbish to be included and I can feel the inner toddler in me wanting to huff off. (I have been known to suddenly need to empty the dishwasher when my ideas are squashed for the fifth time in three mins.) And all the figures end up dead. That’s not a game. That’s a massacre!!! I’ve never known a massacre to be referred to as fun. Besides, is this not the reason I had a second child? To excuse me from this “creative outlet”?

Scootering. Yes, it’s more fun and faster than walking (and listening to kids moaning the whole time) but scooters are weapons of mass destruction… of ankles. MY ankles!!! Plus they take the kids so far away, they can’t hear a word I’m saying. Like “come back!”…

Crazy, unplanned fun. (My two are actually very good at this.) I like calm and controlled. I blame the teacher in me. And, in my mum. (Though, like a true granny, she does crazy, unplanned very well with the grandkids…)

On top of all that fun-sponging, I’m also the mum that doesn’t do painting or crafts-they’re too messy. I hate sand and literally sweep my children with a big brush before they can re-enter the house. And I regularly lose my rag over spilled bubble mix!

I say “no” and “don’t” more times than this brain dull mum can count; “hmmm…interesting” is a standard response; “no more nonsense” is part of my daily vocabulary; and monotone is the only tone I speak in!

So, there you have it. The evidence is overwhelming: I’m definitely the “no fun mum”. Funnies aside… Why (and when) did this once fun loving girl become a straight faced and filled with bore-mum???

I think it’s by trying too hard. By trying too hard to be the “best” mum. By trying to cook healthy meals and snacks, host play dates, take the kids to the clubs they love (and some they don’t), stay on top of the washing and tidying, do the food shop, support my babies when times are tough for them (and when they aren’t), by being awake in the night when they need me because of bad dreams or big voms and getting up at 542am when they feel it’s time to get up for the day (bloody useless groclocks!). By organising “fun” (because fun has to be meticulously planned, right…?). By trying so hard to get it right and not to fuck my kids up in the process. And by trying to do all that on my own.

That’s a lot of plates to spin for a solo act. Too many, in fact. And those are just the mum plates. I have no time or energy for spinning the plate entitled “fun”. If I did, it’d be the first to smash anyway. Smiles are not allowed either. They interfere with my permanent “concentrating” face (aka frowning) and “jaw tightening” procedures (clenched teeth) and that leads to plates slipping and we can’t have that!

When all my energy goes into getting the basics right, I simply don’t have any left for fun. Or even smiling. Keeping alive the two mini humans I share my home and my heart with is my priority. Their physical, emotional and social wellbeing is essential, in that order. Keeping everyone physically healthy has proven damn hard, and not always very successful, work. Emotional support has become all consuming for them and for me in recent months. Social commitments come last. Fun isn’t even on the to do list! Even when the kids are at school or at their dads, those plates are still spinning and those responsibilities remain all mine: the organisational mental load of mothers I think it’s called. It changes us. It wears us down. It wears us out. It makes us serious and sensible and stops us smiling. It makes us unrecognisable to ourselves and to others. It makes us “no fun mums”.

I know I’m not alone. I’m hoping this mum-fession makes others feel less alone, too.

So how are we going to shift this emotional and organisational burden from our shoulders…? Ask for help? Cut back on duties? You choose! Personally, I’m going to take a leaf out my kids book and bounce naked on my bed, whilst flicking bogies at the little darlings…

Image: kinetic sand, you are NOT my friend. (Even if you are pink!)

Michelle Appleby

I’m a mum, a wife, a teacher and, above all else, a human. A human who has struggled to feel “good enough” most of her life but is slowly getting it right for herself, writing about life’s lessons along the way. (I’m defjnitely NOT a blogger type, whatever they are: I just like writing therapeutically.) **all views are MY OWN and not affiliated with any organisation or professional body**

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