Glossy magazines with their pictures of flawless women intimidate me:
how does one get sexy curves, maintain immaculate homes, mother ever smiling children and put the most glorious of food on the table,
all without a hair out of place or a bead of sweat on their perfectly made up faces?
Even though I am aware that it is not real,
not most of the time anyway,
it smashes my self confidence into smithereens.
I know in my heart that perfection is simply a tight spot
between frustration and impossible
yet somehow, that message doesnt always reach my brain.
So I have a better use for them, these glossy magazines.
We tear the pages, strip by strip.
These pages that lie with their pictures
and their false promises of how to attain that impossible target of perfection.
Torn into shreds and paired with glue,
we do what we do best:
sit together and create
amid laughter and chatter and love.
It is in moments like that I find strength,
In these moments, I couldn't care less about the softness of my stretchmarked belly
or the messiness of my home
or the realisation that there will just never be enough time or dough to do all that I want.
It is in these moments
that I find myself
and embrace all that I am
without shame, guilt or apology.
I am mumma and I am proud.