People LIke Her(36)
“And third, if you do have an event to go to, make sure you have a spare dress on standby as someone is definitely going to give you a yogurty kiss on the way out the door. I mean, are you even a mama if you haven’t had three outfit changes before leaving the house? I’m pulling off this #yaydays tee over a party dress combo, though, right? Ooh, here we are!”
We have arrived at the CubHouse, a west London members’ club and boutique hotel for “media mamas and ad dads” (their words, not mine). It looks exactly as you’d imagine: a Soho House for people who’ve popped out a couple of kids. There are gender-neutral superheroes in tasteful shades of grey painted on the walls, neon cloud lights hang from the ceiling, and one entire room has been turned into a ball pit in millennial pink. Pale-wood toys of the sort that only child-free people give as gifts are scattered artfully on the floor. I park up the pram, and when the clipboard girls in their pastel boiler suits realize who I am, we’re ushered up to the events floor and then backstage.
I spot Irene immediately. Four out of five of my pod have won awards today, and it looks like she may even have treated herself to a new outfit to celebrate—I certainly haven’t seen this red velvet Gucci power suit before. I look down at my scuffed Stan Smiths and feel a pang of longing for my old life.
The rest of the gang are all here, and I give them a thumbs-up. Hannah’s won Mumpaigner of the Year, and I’m happy for her (although no doubt the trolls will gripe that getting your tits out in public to feed a child old enough to pour himself a glass straight from the carton is hardly a campaign). Suzy and her frocks that time forgot have bagged Best-Dressed, and Bella’s been recognized with the Mumboss award, so she can probably double the prices again for her This Mama Can career coaching days.
I feel a strange surge of pride watching them pose for photos with their statuettes (golden nappies on pink acrylic pedestals). Whatever anyone thinks of what we do, however much they judge how we make our living, it’s impossible not to be impressed. We’ve managed to be mothers and businesswomen, built empires from anecdotes and selfies, fortunes from family photos and fifteen-second videos. The second-and third-tier Instamums, especially the ones who don’t need the money, for whom this life is a nice little sideline, giving them a few freebies and the odd holiday, will never hit the big league like this. This is the Oscars to their amateur dramatics.
“Thank God, Emmy, I thought you weren’t going to make it. Where’s Coco?” Irene asks.
“I’ve left her with Winter,” I say in a stage whisper. “We didn’t really have a choice. Coco refused to leave the house.”
From the look Irene shoots me, it’s clear she doesn’t think that was wise. “Why you won’t just hire a nanny, I’ll never know,” she says, exasperated. “Oh, I know, I know, Dan wants her to be with normal children her own age, to keep her feet on the ground.”
The way Irene says this last part places it in audible quotation marks—and in my own more cynical moments it has occurred to me that Coco being at nursery all day also means that Dan often has the house to himself to focus on his precious writing.
Irene frowns, her gaze resting on something on the shoulder of my T-shirt.
“You do realize that Bear has just done a milky burp on you?” She points to my son, who is happily cooing away in his custom leopard-print sling. They call my name, and I shrug and head up to the stage, smiling broadly and raising a hand to the crowd when I reach the podium.
“Firstly, let me apologize for Bear’s little sicky puddle,” I say, pointing at my shoulder, “but you know what? This little mishap provides me with the perfect parenting analogy. Because being a mama is all about getting on with it even when the shit hits the fan, or the vomit hits the epaulette, am I right?” I pull a muslin from the carrier with a flourish and do my best to daub off the mess. There are whoops of delight from the audience.
“What makes the perfect mama? Who knows—and really, who cares? I’m certainly not one—and I’m not sure I’ve ever met one. We are all just women—women trying to do enough, be enough, have enough, without ever having it all. Women smiling through the tiny tears, trying not to add our own frustrated sobs to the screaming tantrums, hoisting these precious little humans above our own needs, every hour of every day. Doling out snuggles and antiseptic when knees get scraped, bringing home the bacon to put sausages on the table, locating the glittery angel wings from under the sofa even when your darling is being a devil. Wanting it all to stop just for a moment and crying because this”—I close my eyes and kiss the top of Bear’s head—“can’t last forever.” I can see a woman in the front row nodding furiously as she wipes away a tear.
“I guess it’s all of these things—and more. And that’s what’s being celebrated today. It’s why I started the #yaydays campaign. It’s for mums who go above and beyond, mums who inspire us all, mums who have achieved something really remarkable and whose stories deserve a wider audience. Career mums. First-time mums. Full-time mums. Diverse mums. Mums who are also dads. It means the world to me to be named Mama of the Year, but really, I am going to accept this award for everyone here. Because we’re all on this crazy journey together!”
The idea that someone has given Emmy Jackson a prize for mothering makes me laugh out loud. They must be joking. She must be joking. This must be someone’s sick idea of a joke. Who judges these things? Who sits in a room and decides that someone is the Best New Mama or Mama of the Year or Greatest Gran? Who nominates these people? The whole thing is being livestreamed, of course. Already the_hackney_mum and whatmamawore have chipped in with their ideas of what makes the perfect mama.