Mummy In Captivity

I am a Stuck At Home Mum. I am held indoors against my will. If it is up to me I would rather be in Central London licking the windows of Harrods and try to make sense of the music churned out by the abominations that are Nicki Minaj and Lady Gaga.

I am a Mummy In Captivity because my House Pride and Need For Control have morphed into this massive monster with bad hair and lopsided tits.

It is not my desire to wear the many pretty tops I have acquired during my trips into the outside world whilst scrubbing the limescale out of the toilet bowl. It is not my desire to wear my expensive, organic make-up as I attack pots and pans with steel wool. I did not do my hair just to go on a mad hunt for The Other Fucking Sock. My Control Pants are going to break my ribs into smithereens if I have to bend down one more time to pick shit up off the floor that other people are choosing to not take notice off. One of these days someone else can trip over said thing and slam their faces on the wall and hopefully Die.

The Fancy Tickler, He Who Tickles My Fancy, has a teenage son who lives with us. Teenage Son, like all teenage boys are, is The Vortex Of Misery. He is too young to be left on his own yet old enough to create a mess of epic proportions. It is truly a superpower on its own, to be able to make a space look like the back end of the Bowels of Tartarus. One minute the kitchen is gleaming, the next it looks like a troll just shat all over the sink and deposited a mountain of dirty dishes with cereal welded to the bottom of each and every fucking bowl.

I am stuck at home because not being stuck at home would mean that the whole brood would be released into the wild that is the Outside World. That would mean having to lug around a baby bag that in shade Hideous that is jam-packed with anything and everything. It would also mean a moaning baby that might decide he might start to teeth and therefore be in extreme infant agony. Add to that, an impatient Fancy Tickler who is no longer impressed with my feminine whims that is sniffing every bottle of shampoo on sale or rubbing every soft-looking material on the back of my hands. If the Vortex of Misery is left at home then Fancy Tickler would get extra antsy. What if he torches the flat? What if he runs out of food to stuff his face with in our absence? Oh the horror. If the Vortex comes with then I have to put up with incessant teeth sucking. Everything bores him. It is too cold. It is boiling. He is starving. He is too full up he is bursting at the seams. Some days I picture a knuckle duster. No teeth sucking when there is no more teeth.

I would rather be held in captivity.

It is no wonder sometimes I run into other Mums on their own in Boots and we end up doing the same thing. Just staring at a bottle of shampoo for longer than is necessary. Our stolen moments with toiletries. Taking our own sweet time and being as fickle-minded as we pleased. We may have given up our freedom to pee without an audience but at least we can still have great-smelling hair. Even if it reeks slightly of Eau du Bebe Vomit.