Wednesday 11th May

Dinner round at Friend-Kate’s last night.

Well, I say dinner but it turned out to be an event catered mainly by Pot Noodle and Nescafe.

The reason that the menu became down-graded from roast chicken joint to roast chicken flavour, is that her family seemed too busy having fun with each other for anyone to have much interest in whether their dinner was going to be the result of painful stove-slaving, or acquired using a leaflet and a landline.

I must confess, I thoroughly approve.

I think that, like avocado bathroom suites, the days of the Yummy-Mummy are historeee.

There are women up and down the country, good women, responsible and caring women, who are as we speak, buckling under the pressure of having to both earn the bacon and then bring it home and sauté it with home-grown onions.

Yes, we had the children. Yes, we quite like them. Yes, we want them to be happy (and that).

No, we don’t want to join the PTA. No, we don’t want to have dinner parties to impress other mummies with our 1950’s home-making skills. No, we don’t enjoy enduring our kids birthday parties.

Let’s be honest here, we didn’t really realise what we were letting ourselves in for when we had the ‘little darlings’ anyway.

Mother Nature sells her ‘propagation-of-the-species-pyramid-scam’ from behind a curtain, at the end of the Wizard of Oz’s yellow brick road, and the scheme is designed to suck you in, but good. Despite already having deep misgivings about your initial purchase, the idea that the one you bought earlier might be lonely, drives you on to a second and third purchase.

Once she’s sold you some blue ones, she’ll start reminding you that you don’t have a pink one.

There’s a reason why it’s the munchkins that are insisting that Dorothy head off toward the Emerald City. It’s got quite a lot to do with preventing her from wising up and realising that however empty and dull Kansas was, it certainly didn’t contain small people charging around, shrieking and stealing her expensive shoes.

The pressure of trying to ‘keep-up-with-the-yummies’ is just a pointless drain on the limited energy that most women possess and is only destined to end in tears when, at thirteen, your beloved children start glaring at you over the breakfast table and threatening you with Childline if you don’t get them Sky multi-room PDQ.

My philosophy is as follows.

Do your best to guide and support your young as they develop their own personalities but lets not all turn into fifteen carat martyrs, it’s unnecessary and breeds resentment.

If you feel that you may be a closet Pot-Noodle-Parent, then ‘come-out’ today, here among a community of like-minded anarchists. Feel like dropping the kids off at school tomorrow whilst still wearing your PJ’s?

 Then go for it.

 Would you rather turn your third bedroom into one massive ironing pile while you sod off to an art gallery for the day?

 Get in!

The Pot-Noodle-Parenting revolution is happening.

Or at least it’ll be happening as soon as Mum gets back from her Salsa class.

Sign up today.