Why I hate the supermums of Instagram

When I was a kid the worst words a host could utter were 'Would you like to see our holiday snaps? As it presaged at least half an hour of h oohing and aahing over utterly dull shots them and their kids posed against landmarks in some not awfully far flung destination. Even worse was if they were a bit more tech savvy and could put them up into a slide show. Everyone would sit, stifling yawns, in a darkened room as we were subjected to grainy slide-after-slide of pictures of them splashing in the waves in their Speedos (it was the 70s after all).

Back then pictures of other people's lives were probably the dullest form of entertainment imaginable. Fast forward 30 or so years and we can't seem to get enough of them. Facebook, Twitter and Instagram have made billions courtesy of our insatiable desire to devour images of other people's lives. It has also made a pretty penny for those select few whose photos everyone wants to see too. Gather yourself a few thousand, or indeed tens of thousands, of followers who lap up your smug photos of your perfect life and you can bag yourself a fortune from brands who want to hook themselves to your star.

So what's changed? It's very simple - the ability to edit your life so you only show the gorgeous, heavily filtered, glossy magazine version of your daily life.

In the days of film, your dad would take a shaky shot of you, cutting off half your head, with your belly hanging out and a weird expression on your face. But you wouldn't know how monstrous you looked until the photo came back from the chemist, by which time far too much had been invested in the photo not to keep it for posterity.

Seventies family life is preserved in all its Technicolour horror, though thankfully it is now consigned to dusty albums or retro slide boxes, that are only aired when your parents want to embarrass you in front of your kids.

Family life in 2016 can be doctored as thoroughly as any magazine front cover, which has led to the rise of the model family as portrayed so deeply annoyingly by the uber mums of Instagram.

Where once it was acceptable to slide disgracefully into motherhood. Once you had an extra human being to care for it was OK to let your standards slip. A day spent wiping up slicks of unmentionable bodily fluids was excuse enough to live in tatty tracksuit trousers and a ratty T-shirt that skimmed over the bumps left behind after expelling a child or two.

Not any more. Now mums are tortured by shots of women who seem intent on sharing how bloody amazing they are. Their children are photogenic and dressed immaculately in the latest mini me fashions, their houses are interior designed to the hilt, their holidays are not sandy sandwiches on a windswept beach, but infinity pools in exotic locations and, worst of all, they still look gorgeous in a bikini.

How I hate these paragons of perfection who remind us that you (and your husband) that don't have to let yourself go after having children. In fact you can still be a sex goddess, a loving mummy, a wild explorer and a fitness queen.

Oh please do fuck off with your year long sabbaticals jetting around the world with your stunning bevy of blonde toddlers, your insistence that motherhood is no reason to jettison your fashion sense, and your meals that look as if Jamie Oliver just popped round to cook an organic tea for your tots.

If only I still had mini people of my own I could set up an anti-instamum account, sharing only shots of me when I had been freshly puked on, had failed to wash my hair for a week and still had a preggie bump two years after my child had exited my womb. I could wax lyrical about the beauty of elasticated waists and food from jars, I could let my devoted followers watch as I jetted from Tesco to  push a crying child on the swings in a wind swept park. I could inspire envy with shots of my children literally coated in snot, or whinging in a wee soaked nappy. I could be the real mum of Instagram.

I am sick of the reality of motherhood being airbrushed under the carpet, and I think it is about time mums are reminded that while there may be the rare and exotic few for whom becoming a keeper of several small and wild things makes her more beautiful, successful and all round amazing, for most of us it's still a challenge getting dressed and out in the morning.

Confessions of a working mum

I read a funny Tweet the other day from a fellow parenting writer who said something along the lines of 'Now it's that dreaded time of day when I have to stop writing about the joys of motherhood and actually look after my kids'. Oh how well I know that feeling.

I know us working mothers are meant to feel endlessly guilty for failing to properly nurture our children. Just as breast is best, so a mother's love cannot be replicated by the most capable or loving childcare. Or so the theory goes. I began to feel a little suspicious about this hypothesis back when my children where in the Playdough and finger painting phase. While my nanny actually appeared to take pleasure in sharing these pursuits with them, I found them boring to the point of pain.

I would often sneak upstairs to tap out a blog post or whizz off a pitch leaving them to their own devices, dreading the moment when I would hear that familiar thud, thud, thud as they made their way upstairs to my lair. It's not that I don't love my boys. It's just that I am not sure I was cut out to be a full time mummy, as rather than feel guilt at the requirement to work, I felt nothing less than a joyous sense of release.

Naturally I played this down as it is not the done thing to admit that working was way more fun than running around after a toddler - even when commissions were backwards in coming forwards, or I was forced to make ends meet by writing pious sermons about the benefits about NHS support groups.

Now I know a lot of stay at home mums take this attitude to be somewhat patronising, as if their lifestyle were beneath us high flying (har de har) working mums. Instead I am in awe of anyone who can entertain children all day. Just as I look on in wonderment at downhill ski racers, when I myself can only weep terrified tears as I slither and snowplough down blue slopes, or admire those gifted souls who can coax beautiful melodies from an instrument when I am tone deaf, I recognise that a knack for childcare is a talent and one that I simply do not possess.

For example, I would love to be the kind of mother who enjoys, rather than endures, baking with her children. I love making cakes, but I absolutely hate cooking them with the children. I like my cakes to be things of beauty with smooth icing and colour co-ordinated decoration, with perfect swirls of butter cream and a rice paper daisy placed just so on top. I do not like flat as a pancake fairy cakes, dribbling neon bright glace icing with a thousand smarties dumped on top. It pains me to see what a mess they can make of a cake.

This does not make me a good person. I am well aware of this. I should be passing on my passions so that one day my offspring would credit me with igniting their own burning desire to bake. Instead I try to bake in secret, or save the decorating (the bit I like best) till when they are out. I know I am not alone. One mum admitted to me that she too baked late at night so her children couldn't get their mucky fingers all over her icing.

Another episode that highlighted my lack of aptitude in this sphere was when I spent a rare weekend afternoon on London alone with my husband. We went to the South Bank Centre and as I strolled through the couples stopping for coffee, idly browsing in the bookshop or simply walking unencumbered by small people I had a sudden feeling of being at home. I turned to him and said: 'How is it that after nine years as a mother, I still feel like this is normal life?'

His response was simply to drag me into a nearby pub for an illicit mid-afternoon drink, which reminded me why I love him so much.

A great friend of mine always put me to shame. She would constantly say how impressed she was with me for combining a career (of sorts) with children, flatteringly forgetting that actually I didn't as while I was working the children were being looked after by someone else. Meanwhile she was the kind of mother who would fashion a fantastic birthday party complete with hand painted decorations, thoughtfully chosen going away presents, hand sewn costumes for her children and a knock out home made cake, while actually looking after two small girls. Now that is impressive.

So it was with huge relief that I discovered that my beloved nanny who is a whiz at board games, loves making banana cakes with the kids and endlessly plays hide and seek with them is not leaving me until school can take over where she leaves off. That means I can carry on doing what I am good at, generally wasting time at the keyboard, and she can do what she excels at, looking after my children. Harmony is restored.