Before I had a baby, when I heard the word exclusive I thought of Chanel handbags, Givenchy shoes and the secret ‘In and Out’ burger menu. Then I had a baby and ‘Exclusive’ referred to the allusive club- one where you didn’t even dare pretend you belonged unless you breastfeed your baby, puree all your baby’s food by hand, give your baby a bath every day and never let the evil word ‘formula’ pass between your lips (unless of course to talk about how formula fed kids will obviously have learning issues).

The fourth day I was in hospital after Micah was born he lost over 360g of his birth weight and the Midwife told me a. He would need to be on a feeding program b. they would need to start giving him formula c. I’m a failure (OK, she didn’t actually say that). I remember going back to my room and crying thinking about how my 4 day old baby’s body was about to be defiled by the contents of that tin. When I told the Midwife my thoughts she assured me that formula is perfectly safe, great and not at all powdered sugar for babies; and most of all that NO-ONE was going to judge me for giving my son formula on top of Breastmilk.

You ever walk into a room and think that everyone’s suddenly staring at you? Like you’ve just walked in with dog poo on the bottom of your shoes and not even noticed? Yeah. That was me in a Mother’s group. It was like a perfectly coordinated dance- all the Mum’s brought out their breastfeeding aprons (YES PEOPLE! THIS IS A THING THAT PEOPLE USE REAL LIFE MONEY TO BUY) in a myriad of colours, and proceeded to feed their precious little poop machines. Then there was me and poor little Mr”is he yours?” AKA Micah. He knew the drill; scream and humiliate your Mum as she fumbles around trying to prepare your bottle. “Oh you bottle feed…that’s nice. you’re SOOOO lucky! I wish my baby would make things easy for me”….Did this b**tch really just say that to me?  I smiled. The smile of a butt-hurt African (OH MY GOD AFRICA IS NOT A COUNTRYYY) girl who was thinking of many ways she was going to curse her ancestors.

Unless you’re a Mum, know a Mum, have a Mum, ever had a conversation with a Mum; you’re probably like, “I’m out. I’m not about to sit here and read about how sad this girl is cause her husband won’t buy her an Apron.” I don’t blame you. Everytime I get into a conversation with someone about how their kid sleeps 20hrs a night and their kid rolls from tummy to back that’s exactly how I feel. You’d think the only criteria for getting into the ‘Mummy Club’ would be- has a kid; well you’d be very wrong Janice.

You see the ‘Mummy Club is predominantly about bashing other mums- but in a nice way cause you a classy lady who don’t use bad words. You need to learn the covert art of passive aggression. You need to spend hours on Facebook looking for mums, so you can let them know the many ways they stuffed up today and how you will get unlimited Wifi in heaven cause you a top notch mum.

When you master that, then and only then, can you join the Mummy Club.

Dara

XOx