Bedraggled martyr, or hungover ketamum? Bouncy gym mummy, or locked away gentle parent child servant? It’s mother’s day, so let’s play Mommie Dearest bingo with the mums you meet out and about. Or perhaps you can see yourself in one of these harried characters...
The KetaMum
She’s back-back-back on the party scene after a brief sojourn from her old ways while she popped out little ravers Charlie, Dex and Molly. You will find the Ketamum laid out cold on the dusty floor of a day festival dance tent, after she got over-excited that the babysitter was booked until 11am tomorrow. Check the Insta Stories to see just how unexcited she is at 11.05am the next day.
Where you will find her: Walthamstow, wearing a neon-lined Dryrobe pulled round her face to disguise the comedown.
The Gym Mummy
Best avoided for fear the façade will crack, this perky bunny operates on endorphins, green juice and a slightly elevated jog speed, at all times. Easily spotted in her over-priced Lycra at school gates, coffee shops and hair salons, but never in a one-mile radius of a gym. Husband is strapped to his desk at Goldman Sachs, but she is sometimes accompanied (closely) by a 25-year-old male model she addresses only as ‘Coach’.
Where you’ll find her: popping to reformer Pilates before Coach helps straighten her out as the nanny picks the kids up from their Holland Park prep school.
The Martyr
A deep harumph of a person. Will do anything she can for her family, but boy will you hear about it. Do not ask The Martyr how her weekend was: you will not emerge without a litany of everyone else’s sins. Book her an Urban Massage and pop her on mute.
Where you will find her: shuttling like the new Superloop buses between a suburban school and football club, wait no, is it ballet class on Tuesday? Oh and don’t forget picking up the prescriptions and compression socks for her ailing mother while a cold Starbucks sloshes round the dash.
The Righteous Mother
She’s the one on the class WhatsApp relentlessly and humourlessly sending links to petitions and demos that tie neatly into her child’s core values, shaped solely by their library of Little People, Big Dreams books.
Where you’ll find her: running a political poster-painting workshop for reception class in a Finsbury Park state primary; setting up a campaign to ban phones in school (from her phone, at the school).
The Teenabler
Want to know who gave your 12-year-old their first WKD? No, not Leon from year 10, it was his mother, who presides over the ‘free house’ parties like the landlady of an East End pub. Rest assured though, she’s fixed the kids up with her dealer and made sure to sample the gear ahead of time, so they’re in safe hands.
Where you’ll find her: in an opulently white-rendered 1930s semi in Loughton, unmissable due to the custom Barbie-pink Range Rover on the drive.
The Frazzled English Mother
Did you know that having children alters your hair folicles? Need empirical proof? Meet The Frazzled English Mother. She once saw that picture of Meryl Streep in her Afghan coat collecting an armful of flowers and now she thinks she’s a Kate Winslet character in a Nancy Meyers movie. In reality, she’s an excessively put-upon GP whose shoulder is coated in a snail-trail of toddler snot.
Where you’ll find her: she’s been living in the same two-bed in Tooting Bec since 2010 and yet somehow she still can’t find her car keys, a hairbrush or the wherewithal to realise that not living in such close confines might help her sort her life out.
The Gentle Parent-Child Servant
‘So sorry, I’ll be with you in a moment, I’m just penning a tear-stained poem about the end of our breastfeeding journey, called: “Jasper, You’re Four Now”.’ She looks up to find Jasper with his fingers around a traumatized fluffy tail. ‘Oh, Jasper, I can’t have you picking that squirrel up by its tail. I know you’re feeling anxious about climate change, but throwing animals isn’t kind. Here, throw this instead,’ she says, offering him her iPhone to trash. She is so devoted to her mini tyrannical boss that she twitches if she hears the word ‘mummy’. Does not sleep. Does not breathe out of place. Suffers from a rare form of Stockholm syndrome called, ‘Mother’s love’.
Where you’ll find her: a cupboard under the stairs where Jasper has her incarcerated.
The Trad Madre
What she doesn’t know about midi skirts and which Tupperware most suits which batch-cooked meal, she makes up for in down-home virtuous values. The Trad Madre has five children under five and somehow still manages to be a successful cleaning influencer, while also tending to the family’s Leyton-bred chickens.
Where you’ll find her: singing ‘Hallelujah’ at the local church playgroup with her gaggle of toddlers, baby strapped to her front, bag brimming with freshly prepared cucumber sticks and home-made banana bread, of course.
