mumstories

A Mum Life Story from our first hashtag competition winner.

Jo Caddy

In the 4 hours leading up to our official site launch, we ran a short competition on Facebook to get people hash tagging Mum Life Stories, in order to find our very first story contributor. We’d like to congratulate Tia Burton on winning the contest and becoming our very first story contributor (outside of our administration) with her story ‘Helicopter Mum’. Please read on to be enveloped in her relatable, thought-provoking tale about two women who share a common stigma, which many mums today and in past decades have been undeservedly labelled with. You can also read the story here in our Flash Fiction library!

 

Helicopter Mum

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Helicopter Parent: “a style of parent who is over focused on their children.”

She sat there, slumped in the kitchen chair enveloped by her own exhaustion, a silhouette of light peered through the kitchen window landing on her tired hollow eyes. Our conversation drove through common places, talking babies, sleep schedules and the emotional exhaustion we both faced. I could hear a distinct heaviness in her heart.

At every conversational turn she began to justify her decisions regarding how she choose to raise her little men, it was as if she was standing before the judge, jury and executioner of the parenting squad. Underneath every justification there appeared to be unspoken wonderings “Is my parenting style just too much?” As I sat at the end of her words, I listened intently to how deeply she adored her babies, I could see her eyes ignite with joy as she shared all about their escapades and yet simultaneously the echoing anxious thoughts ricocheted from her mind and the unnecessary justifications cascaded out.

I realised in that moment she had been conditioned to defend herself before the attacks even began, she was suffocating under the helicopter mum label other ‘laid’ back parents had given her. I could see it, but only because I could see myself in her every justification. As she defended her right to not follow the cry it out method, I was reminded of all the times, I like her had been met with scoffs, snickers and eye rolls for my own parenting decisions.

As we sat there, we marvelled at the beautiful chaos we found ourselves in. Becoming parents meant we believe there is a chance the love we feel for our little ones could cause our hearts to explode. Yet, there is a madness we feel due to carrying the mental load of motherhood. Despite our different approaches to parenting we both felt the pressure of raising babes into functioning adults, and we were also united in our desire to see our children thrive.

However, as she sat there with the sun beaming through the thick glass, the helicopter label she had been given stuck, and she would unknowingly wear it. Despite the differences between us, or the similarities shared we could both agree that when it comes to raising our little ones there is no black or white just numerous shades of grey.

 

 

Tia Burton is a warm, energetic, often loud, ambitious and spontaneous wife to Chris, whom she shares the joy of raising their little Elijah. She can be found drifting off in thought, face deep in a tub of ice cream or racing around the place visiting her tribe while trying to cram in enough time to submit her uni assignments. Tia enjoys snuggles with her husband, giggling with her boy, food and all things creative. You can follow their family adventures via her Instagram @tiaburtonn.

Mum Life Micro Stories

Jo Caddy

Short stories are a great medium for weaving an exciting tale into a non time consuming format that’s easy to read and won’t steal half your day away. In this day and age with so much information and entertainment at our fingertips, it can be hard as a writer to retain a readers attention for more than a few minutes. Micro Fiction is even shorter with word counts anywhere from 100 to 1000 and they are both a wonderful way for busy readers to get their story fix and fantastic practice for writers to learn how to condense stories in order to get more depth in their narratives. We will be introducing competitions on our site at a later stage with both Micro Stories and Flash Fiction Stories, hopefully with a prize as well as publication on the blog. In the meantime here are two Micro Stories (max length is 250 words) that our administrator Jo Stewart wrote for competitions on Sweek.com (Check out her profile here for more stories.)

This story was written for the #MicroKey competition.

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KEY TO MY HEART

“That’s the key to my heart right there!” Liz nodded toward the screen which displayed in amazing clarity the outline of a tiny human skeleton.

“You and your husband must be very proud?” The ultrasound technician smiled, tapping at the keyboard.

Liz felt the sting of mourning return. The day’s events were a welcome distraction, but now fresh tears pooled in her eyes, threatening to spill over and drench her crisp white blouse.

“Oh dear, did I upset you?” The technician, a mature lady with dark hair, streaked with silver, handed Liz a tissue as the first tear escaped its shallow confines.

Liz wiped the tear from her cheek. “No, it’s just…my husband passed away 3 months ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry”

“Thanks! When I found out I was pregnant I felt I was given a piece of him to keep. If it’s a boy, I’ll give him my husband’s name.”

“Oh, what a blessing” she smiled again, turning to the screen in front of her. As she adjusted the transducer on Liz’s abdomen her expression altered.

“Is something wrong?” Liz’s chest tightened with fear.

“No, but your chances of having at least one boy just increased.” Her face beaming as she pointed to a curved line hovering above the baby’s tiny skull. “See that? There’s another baby, hiding behind the first!”

Liz’s joy overwhelmed her and the tears she’d been bravely holding back poured out and flooded her cheeks. The key to her heart was now a twin set.

This story was written for the #MicroGame competition.

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A CHILDISH GAME

I lay motionless on the floor. Something was hanging above my face, but I couldn’t focus on it. I tried to reach out but had no control over my body. My arm jerked up and down with my tenacious efforts, fear and insecurity consuming me as I realised it was futile.

My heart beat faster when I noticed I was not alone. “Maybe she’s not ready for this game” I heard a deep, unfamiliar voice say. I felt desperate to know who was in my home, my safe place. I wanted to cry but decided bravery was a better friend.
My heart quickened again as I heard footsteps. Someone else was now in the room. I felt pain in my stomach which gradually intensified as the two talked in hushed tones. No longer able to remain silent, I tried to yell but could not form words, so I cried out anxiously.

Suddenly a shadowy figure moved toward me, bent down and stretched out their arms toward my now stiffened body. What would they do? Take this pain away or prolong it for more agonizing hours? Their face moved closer toward mine and become clearer. I could finally make out their features…it was mummy! She picked me up, held me close and kissed my forehead. I heard her heart beat and smelt her sweet familiar aroma.

“She’s just hungry” she said “it’s time for her feed”.

I was safe once more, in the arms of the one who bore me.

 

 

 

The Story Begins

The Story Begins

Jo Caddy

Welcome to the exciting new blog ‘Mum Life Stories’. I am so happy to have you join me and vice versa, here on this journey called Motherhood. I hope you find entertainment, comfort, encouragement, companionship and inspiration on this site. I can’t wait to hear from you as you adventure through the amazing stories that will be gracing the pages of this blog and hearing your own tales of adventures, misadventures, joys and perils. To get things started, here’s our first shared story ‘#MumLife’ by myself, Jo Stewart. Let the Story Begin.

~ Jo Stewart

 

#MumLife

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I giggled to myself as I stared at the photo one more time before typing #mumlife in the description and hitting the ‘post’ button. As the page reloaded and my update became published for all my 343 “friends” to see, I was struck with an amalgam of contrary feelings. I loved sharing pics of my adorable offspring on social media, in their cutest outfits, with their messy, stickiest faces, their cheekiest, heart-melting expressions, in their beds asleep like little angels, but underneath the warm fuzzies I gained from projecting the best scenes of my life out into the world, lay an undefined sadness.

I had sensed this sadness before but chose to overlook it in favour of focusing instead on the superficial joy that came with pushing the perception of a perfect family. I wanted people to know me, to understand me, to journey with me, but fear of being seen as boring, as less than together, unbalanced, unstable, weak, a failure, made me selective in what I shared. I had convinced myself that what I chose to share was my attempt to be optimistic in a pessimistic world, to grab onto all the good things in life while letting go of the bad, but the fact that my joy was so short-lived, had finally convicted me that I was like countless others who were not being genuine about the realities of life.

I decided to write another post, this time attempting to be transparent and open. I’d typed a mere 2 words when a small voice declared “oh oh.” No matter how many times I’d heard this before, and anticipated it as part of my day, I was still taken aback by it. I knew it couldn’t be good, but nothing prepared me for the total shock and disgust that invaded my otherwise peaceful resolve as I peered over the edge of my phone at the scene before me. Yes, I said peaceful resolve which is most likely to every mother in the world (including myself) a somewhat foreign concept. Mind you it was 7.30am and the day had only just begun an hour previously.

I knew that most mothers where well-versed in the joys of the undignified poo explosion that comes with the territory of a new born and the perilous journey that is toilet training an active toddler, but there was one horror that came between these two points that was far less often talked about and that was the horrendous ordeal of managing the dreaded poo-eater. My 2-year-old blonde bombshell was a poo-eater and after being caught in the act a dozen times he had now worked out a pint-sized avoidance strategy that helped him evade parental interference long enough to get a few fingers full of the odious brown goo into his small mouth. Nothing irked me more than spending half an hour in a tactical clean up mission with a wriggly toddler, ending in 2 sets of smelly hands, a pile of poopy clothes, nappies and bum wipes and a further 5 minutes investigating the scene for stray bits of poop, but of course it had to be done. If only this had been one of his usual poo-eating incidents.

For some reason known only to the mysterious mind of my hyperactive toddler, he had chosen this morning to take his revolting pursuit to a whole new level. Several brown streaks had been painted on the white walls in little three fingered arches approximately one meter from the ground. If it hadn’t been for the revolting matter used in the creative expression, one might have been able to admire it as an aesthetically pleasing artwork. With this in mind, I snapped a quick photo on my phone before retrieving the spray and wipe from under the kitchen sink and getting to work.  A hundred gags and several dry heaves later, I’d finally removed every trace of human waste from the walls of the family room, all whilst a very frustrated 8-month old sat on his mat complaining about his older brothers unwarranted attention.

I rescued the baby from his brother’s over-zealous affections and consoled him with a breast-feed. After placing him in the high chair with a rusk to gnaw on, I sat down to write a whole new post on my social media profile, making sure to keep a close eye on my poo-eater who was now running laps around the loungeroom. I wrote of the events of the morning, including all the emotions that threatened to overwhelm me and my narrow escape from a violent vomiting session, sparing no detail.  I added the picture of the poo-mural for dramatic affect and hit the ‘post’ button. I felt satisfied that I’d painted a real and genuine portrait of the moment, in all it’s disgusting glory. I was confident it would be appreciated and met with comments of empathy and related tales of common accord, but my hopes were dashed as I read the responses an hour later.

   Oh wow, you can’t take your eyes off them for a second, can you?

   OMG Sara, my son would never get that far, I watch him like a hawk.

   Looks like someone needs some discipline!

   Oh that’s disgusting….gag

   Could have done without the visual.

   Maybe you should spend less time on social media and more time watching your son!

I felt sick to my stomach at the judgemental and tactless comments, the last one earning itself a very angry ‘unfriending’. I sat for a moment thinking about how deluded I was to assume that everyone would appreciate my candid re-telling of events, but then it dawned on me that most of my “friends” were childless acquaintances, befriended previous to our years of procreation. Why was I sharing a reality too real for the single and childless with that very audience? Only those who had been there could truly understand the nightmare I’d been through, but where could I share my story with an audience that could relate and empathise with me?

I scoured my social media pages to find a dozen mums groups, all filled with a plethora of stories similar and equally as disturbing as mine. Comments were mostly supportive and seemed genuine and heart-felt. I shared my story and felt comforted and understood. I was amazed at the vast amount of entertaining tales that covered the pages of these sites, tales that so many missed out on because they were not part of the Motherhood club. I began to think, ‘what if there was a site where these tales could be told in an entertaining way, a way that would appeal to everyone?’

I felt a rush of excitement as I jumped to my feet. My 8-month-old glared at me from his activity centre like I’d lost my mind, and I ran past my two-year old begging me for a bickie, into the study to grab my laptop. I tied my long unwashed Auburn hair up into a ponytail and sat down at the kitchen table to begin my blogging career.