Emily Manson

Every week it seems we get a note either from the school or nursery warning that yet ANOTHER set of nits is doing the rounds.

I have stocked up on the obligatory nit comb, lotion etc and made a mental note of how I will wash and clean everything in 24 hours so as to expunge the creatures from my home should they dare enter, but so far we have managed to escape any infestation.

This does not, however, stop me from becoming totally neurotic every time I visit a hairdressers. As they part my hair and say in that inane way “So how would you like it today?” I can’t think straight, I’m watching their eyes, looking at the reflection of their comb running through my parting hoping, nay praying, that they do not see bugs jumping up and down on my scalp or little white eggs clinging to strands of hair.

I live in fear of the words: “I’m so sorry Mrs G. (married name) I’m afraid we can’t do your hair today, you have nits.”

Kids & nits, I can deal with… but me being ‘outed’ in a salon – that must surely be the ultimate humiliation. I wonder if I’m the only one with such neuroses or if other mothers have to confront similar demons just to get a trim?

Poor little Josh, he’s got it, the dreaded chicken pox. It’s ravaging through his little body – I’ve never seen anything like it – except when Ellie had it. This horrible lurghy just coarses through their bodies, and they’re helpless little victims, wondering why, all of a sudden, they’re so itchy.

But apart from the sypmpathy that one naturally feels as a mummy, comes the dreaded puke-factor. Yesterday alone I got covered twice in projectile vomit from hip to knees the first time, the second down my top, welling up in my cleavage. Nice. He was covered, I was mostly covered, it was dripping off the leather footstool and a puddle was seeping into my carpet.

It was one of those moments as a mum when the world goes slowly for a minute. I simply had no idea what to do, where to put myself, my dripping jeans or my puke-soaked child or where to begin the clean up process.

I’d be lying if I said there isn’t a moment at times like these where a thought flashes through my brain: “I’m may be the mummy, but get me outta here.”

Men get paid more than women. Fact.

Why? Because women are like me. I took hours today writing an email to a friend of hubby’s who runs a media training company. I spent what seemed like an eternity diligently sitting at my computer composing what was meant to be the email of all emails. I said what I thought I wanted to say, nearly sent it. Got cold feet. Sent it to hubby instead for approval.

He replied within 2 minutes. Slated it. Asked why I was apologising for myself. Reminded me I was sucessfully editing a national magazine not so long ago. Suggested re-writing in a totally different tone. What happened to me?

Maternity leave happened – twice. It seems to sap every ounce of belief in oneself. You’re left with the shell of who you once were, with no inner core or strength to believe that you can do anything other than the most menial of tasks.

There was a job for an admin assistant at Sam’s Brasserie the other day. I genuinely found myself wondering if I should go for this role and whether I’d even get it. This is the kind of job I did when I was 18 and knew nothing and still managed to do it ok.

It’s impossible to pinpoint when this change occurs. You’re fine leaving work, then the baby comes, the sleepless nights happen, you realise you know nothing about raising kids and you’re spending your whole life flying by the seat of your pants.

Perhaps this is what drains us, or maybe it’s just DNA. I know so many women who think “I’m not up to the job, when will the world realise this?” and so many men who’ll just happily bullshit their way along until they get found out – and even then it’s water off a duck’s back.

Whatever it is. I wish I didn’t have it. I used to be a sassy chick, now I just feel like a battery hen. I need to get back into my groove.