That mother I judge
There is a mother I know and I can’t help but judge her.
I judge her because she had an epidural during labour and a forceps delivery. I judge her because she would have liked to have had an epidural for her second birth too.
She didn’t stick with breastfeeding for a year.
She regularly feeds her own children food which she hasn’t lovingly prepared for them herself. She lets them eat crisps and ice cream and bribes them with chocolate. She also sometimes eats the chocolate that others bought for her kids. She sometimes hides away to do this so she doesn’t have to share the chocolate.
That mother sticks her children in front of CBeebies, or a Disney film or even the kids’ own tablets – just to give herself a moment of peace.
Her house is a mess. Her car is a mess. The washing basket is overflowing. She never irons any clothes. Ever.
I judge her because sometimes she shouts at her children. Sometimes they drive her crazy. She lets them run around screaming in public, getting themselves muddy and wet as they stomp around in puddles in inappropriate clothes and shoes. They have tantrums and cry in the supermarket. Yet again she bribes them with “treats”.
The mother I judge works, leaving her children to be cared for by a nursery. She likes to work. She enjoys the break it gives her from her children.
She loves the moment when her children have gone to sleep and peace and quiet descends on her house.
But that mother that I judge loves her children and no matter what you think about her, she judges herself more harshly than anyone else.