Diary of a Working Mum

“Help, I’m a Work-From-Home Mom, Trying to Plan Family Fun, Blogging for Clout, and Running on Fumes”

Written By A Very Tired Mom, Probably Holding a Planner, a Laptop, and a Half-Eaten Granola Bar

Listen, I love my family more than anything. I love writing my blog. But juggling work-from-home life, planning family activities, and trying to make my blog go viral while I’m so tired is hard work. I just called my daughter by the dog’s name, and she answered to it. I said good morning to someone today, when it was in fact late afternoon. I wanted the ground to swallow me up. I tried it laugh it off, telling them ‘it was one of those days’.

Welcome to my world, where I’m the designated director of the shit show. I am the frazzled chef, the wannabe influencer, the worn out nurse and the woman who just found a crayon in her bra. Buckle up and enjoy the chaotic hilarity of being an overwhelmed work-from-home mom, trying to keep the family entertained, and survive on three hours of sleep and sheer willpower. I can tell you right now, it is not going well.

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Before having my daughter, I pictured family life like a Pinterest board. Going on idylic apple orchard outings, hosting cookie-baking sessions at home, and enjoying board games. I thought I would enjoy reading high quality, viral posts such as “10 Ways to Organize Your Life.” However, my life is less “Pinterest aesthetic” and more “hot mess express.” My coffee is always cold, and the last time I had a full night’s sleep, skinny jeans were in fashion.

I’m the mom trying to plan “fun” family activities to keep my daughter from turning the living room into chaos. She is like a a pint-sized tornado. She unleashes her full destructive potential if she is allowed to get bored for five minutes. From the moment she wakes up, she is armed with boundless energy. She will sprint from room to room, crumbling snack shrapnel across the carpets like a rogue baker. The coffee table becomes an art studio as she scribbles on a coloring book, often missing the page entirely, leaving crayon streaks on the wood.

The TV, blaring Topsy and Tim, is ignored as she drags blankets across the room, toppling the laundry basket and sending garments flying everywhere. In under five minutes, the room transforms from “lived-in” to “post-apocalyptic playground,” whilst my daughter grins proudly in the centre, oblivious to the chaos she’s created.

The only thing that can make this situation any worse, is when my five-year-old tugs at my sleeve, eyes wide, begging, “Mummy, come play fairies with me!” I’m elbow-deep in a work deadline, my laptop glaring at me accusingly, and I sigh, “Sweetie, I’ve got to finish work—maybe in a bit?” Her face falls, leaving me with a pang of guilt. And just like that, I drop all my responsibilities and put on a tiara and grab a fairy wand. After all, they won’t always be this small, will they?

One of the most important things to my daughter is playing with her mummy. I cannot bear to see the sadness on her face, and she knows it. I have built the rod for my own back, and it is made soley out of mum guilt, and a desire to not emotionally damage my child.

I would love to hear from other parents who have also built the rods for their own back. You must be out there!

Cheerio

E x

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