Do Not Call me Super Mom

Re-posted with some edits from July 2013 _ For the record?  Nothing has changed at all.

Please Do Not Call Me Supermom.  Maybe there’s something wrong with the way I’m wired. Maybe I have a glitch in my “mom” gene. Maybe just maybe I’m right and no mom is a Supermom (ooh that just got controversial)

I can only assume that the term Supermom is in reference to Superman, the man of steel, the beloved superhero of superheroes.  He could leap over tall buildings, he was faster than a speeding bullet and could take a bullet without flinching.  I am nothing like that.

Forget leaping over tall buildings, I can barely jump with two feet onto my stepper at the gym.

Faster than a speeding bullet? uh?  no. If you ask my husband and kids they will tell you I am the opposite of fast. (don’t mistake being in a hurry for the same as being fast because they are two very different things. Perhaps if I was faster I wouldn’t have to be in such a hurry)

That whole thing about taking a bullet? Let me take that metaphorically because after all, all of us would at least flinch if we were hit by one of those. So let’s assume that in real life the bullet is a metaphor for those things in life that hit us hard.  I flinch. I more than flinch. I fall. I cry. I’m heartbroken. And I’m not even talking about really tough things like loss. I’m talking things like Toy Story 3 when Andy gives up Woody.  I can’t even read I Love You Forever by Robert Munsch without breaking down.

Baby on Couch

 

I am far from perfect.

I hate:

  • housework, laundry and cooking.
  • being the driver.
  • reading teacher comments on report cards.
  • enforcing the rules.
  • sharing my food.

I strongly rely on my husband to be an active father. I rely on my family and friends for support. Just because I can and will do anything for my kids, and have a knack for “sucking it up” does not make me Supermom.

I will happily:

  • take a day off of work to see their play that really isn’t even good.
  • take all three to their doctor’s appointments at the same time.
  • drive for hours in traffic just to keep a promise.
  • watch wrestling.
  • listen to “Despacito” over and over again.
  • do all their laundry (eventually) and cook all their meals.

I have even been known to build a medieval castle out of sugar cubes.

I’ll get a second job to give them everything I can, but don’t call me Supermom.

That title is just too much pressure and makes me feel like a fraud.

What if one day I really just don’t want to suck it up?  What does that make me then? And what message is my daughter getting? That as a mom you need to be perfect or at least have people believe you are?  That is not the message I want to raise her with at all. So, no matter what I have done or what I will do in the future for the sake of my family and most importantly my children. Do not. Call. Me. Supermom.

Can you relate to this at all?  Let me know in the comments.

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