Disclaimer: I swear. You’ve been warned. Cheers.
Those bitches are waiting to take you down. You know who they are. They skulk around the school gates in their three-quarter pants and their ballet flats and their army of mid-priced family SUVs. They huddle in cloistered groups, indiscriminately spewing poison darts of judgement like Lady Gaga shoots fireworks out of her pyrotechnic bra. The hate is palpable. They are the enemy.
This is not a Michael Bay film.
This is the Mummy Wars, and the battle lines have been drawn.
Except they aren’t. YAWN.
I’ve had it with this shit. I’m tired of the manufactured drama, and I’m here to call it out. The Mummy Wars is nothing more than a bullshit myth created by the media, embraced by traffic-hungry editors and perpetuated by dumb-as-fuck clickbait headlines. It’s FAKE NEWS from media outlets who pretend to advocate for women while ruthlessly tearing them down with the sort of sadistic glee that makes Ramsay Bolton look like Oprah Winfrey.
Given the hyperbole with which parenting stories are reported, the media want you believe that Logan’s Mum will happily garotte you in the playground once your back is turned, because your skepticism about amber teething necklaces is at odds with her belief that they infuse ancient eons of fossilised goodness directly to the pain synapses in the infant brain. Or something. Who the fuck knows, it’s all bullshit.
Sorry Logan’s Mum.
Here’s the rub. Differing in the way we parent our kids isn’t an outright declaration of war, and this ridiculous idea that women are poised to gleefully tear each other down at every opportunity is in stark contrast to my actual lived experience. The reality is, women are the FIRST people to step up and offer practical and emotional support to other women when they send up their “shit I need help” emergency signal flares.
BUT WHAT ABOUT ALL THE ARGUES ON THE INTERNET?!
What about the time that random sanctimummy said mean things to me on Facebook because I sent my kid to school with an insulated lunch bag instead of a limited edition Yumbox!? I mean, it had fucking Elsa on the front. How rude!
WOMEN ARE THEIR OWN WORST ENEMIES!! WAAAAAH!
Pointing to social media as evidence that The Mummy Wars is an actual thing is as stupid as pointing to David Avocado Wolfe’s Facebook page for evidence that the Illuminati is real and they are poisoning our water supply with toxic levels of dihydrogen monoxide in order to enact Beta 6 Global Mind Control and “hey buy these crystal salt lamps for only $59.99 on my website – comes with free tin foil!”
The internet can’t be used to gauge the quality of our interpersonal relationships because it became popular for pointless conflict, the same way that hand-held massagers became popular as masturbation devices. The inventors never planned it that way. It just happened. Human beings are enigmatic creatures.
Not sure where I’m going with that masturbation nonsense? Me either. Let’s pretend that paragraph never happened and move on to a real life example of what #mummysquadgoals looks like in action:
A good friend of mine is having an incredibly bad run of late. Without going into detail, she’s having the sort of epic bad luck that would have Chuck Norris pooping his pants and attempting to abseil back up his ageing mother’s birth canal. To add literal insult to injury, the other day she was the victim of a hit and run accident with a truck driver that left her with a cracked rib.
She works in party-planning and needed to inflate 1000 balloons for a client, which is kind of hard to do when some asshole hits your car and cracks your rib. I watched as she put out a call for help on Facebook, and within minutes an enthusiastic posse of women had replied with offers of help. Later that night five of us sat around drinking Bacardi and blowing up balloons, because that’s what bitches do when shit goes down.
This is not an isolated event. It happens every day in every way, across thousands of sprawling micro-communities of engaged mums:
The ones helping at the school working bee and baking for the cake stall.
The ones cooking meals for new mums who are suffering from PND.
The ones putting together care packages for women undergoing chemo.
The ones picking your kids up from school when your car breaks down.
The ones who offer to babysit for you when work calls at the last minute.
The ones delivering wine and chocolate when things are catastrophically shit.
The ones who come over for back-up when a rogue lace monitor has torn apart your daughters’s chicken and is holding your family hostage at the front door.
(Real life example from my friend with the biblical-level bad karma. I mean, have you ever SEEN one of those fucking things? They eat small children FFS)
Don’t be fooled – The Mummy Wars are FAKE NEWS. It’s outrage fodder for internet clicks and masturbation material for anonymous sanctimummies who have taken up online trolling as a form of cardio.
So yeah, fuck all that. Hard-working, time-poor mothers are the first people to step up and offer their support in the real world, and I am incredibly grateful for my kick-ass mummy friends because I know that they’ve always got my back (and if one of those kind mummy friends would kindly step up and punch me in the face for using the phrase “mummy friends” right now I’d greatly appreciate it).
Long story short? Don’t buy into the bullshit.
We’re allies, not enemies. And together we’re fucking fierce.