Hot Mess 

Since becoming a mum I have genuinely came to loathe the term ‘yummy mummy’. Maybe it’s because I have yet to qualify as a ‘yummy mummy’. You know the type? It’s those mummy’s you see out and about with styled hair; manicured nails; designer nappy bags (really?); they appear to be effortlessly pushing a smooth sailing stroller with a Starbucks in hand. Oh wow, look how they have things completely under control… 

I recently had to sell my smooth sailing icandy twin stroller because the twin on the bottom screamed until she could see as much as the twin on top. So now I am using a bulky twin pram which keeps the twins more content than the other pram. Unfortunately for me, this means that we are refused entry to many places whose doorways do not accommodate for tandem strollers. 

So there I am; the epitome of what a ‘yummy mummy’ isn’t; un-masterfully manoeuvring a double stroller; there’s definitely perspiration running down my face, back, possibly even my butt; I’m still in my ‘fat clothes’ because I am yet to fully commit to a diet and exercise routine; I feel hot all over and I am praying, to the God I’m not too sure about, that I can make it to the sanctuary of my car in time to blast the cold air con before my head explodes. 

 I prefer to refer to myself as a ‘hot mess’ of a mum, and not in the flattering sense. I use the term ‘hot mess’ because it’s the overwhelming hot feeling that comes over me on many occasions. 

It happens when one of the girls, or both of the girls (double the chance with twins) start screaming and I am completely unprepared for it. 

For example:  

It happens at bath time, surely bathing twins is a work out in itself? 

It happens when I’m collapsing our chunky twin pram. 

It happens when I’m pushing said chunky twin pram. (I can’t help but think that I always look a little chavvy when the hot mess overpowers me and I’m trying to get from A to B with the girls.)

It happens when I’m trying to do the groceries and manoeuvre a rattling trolley with a set of twins poking each other in the eyes, and pulling each other by the little tufts of hair they have behind their ears. 

It happens when I’m trying to squeeze into a pair of jeans, and it also happens when I’m peeling them off again in the evening. 

I even get a hot mess moment at the thought of leaving the house with the twins, and yet I feel it’s very important to get out of the house no matter the amount of hot mess moments you know you will have to endure while you push along that big stroller. 

Basically, it happens all too often. 

Maybe one day (when the twins are old enough to walk beside me without the risk of them absconding), the only hot mess moments I can anticipate will be menopausal, and I may finally qualify as a ‘yummy mummy’ *cringe*… 



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