Meet the Muthas (part one)

Motherhood does strange things to heretofore perfectly sane people, making the school gate a minefield of strung out mothers on the verge. To help you navigate the playground, The Trashy has put together a field guide of some of the more frightening manifestations. Enter at your own risk…

The Organobot

The Organobot and her children are so chemically pure that the mere sight of an M&M will bring them out in hives. The children were suckled exclusively until they were at school, which explains the buck teeth and The Organobot’s inverted nipples. Despite this, she attempts to breastfeed every child that comes for playdate and wonders why her children are not popular. The children’s packed lunches feature edamame beans, seaweed and the the distilled tears of virgin hummingbirds. They have immaculate skin but lack energy and are always picked last for sports. Recognisable by crisp circles of stale breast milk on a floaty hemp top, The Organobot means well, but in truth she is a crushing bore and being with her makes even the healthiest of people want to jack up and gorge on Mars Bars.

The Matryoshka

Squeezing out spawn as though the human race depends on it, the perma-pregnant Matryoshka is not happy unless she is splashing her genes around like confetti. Few people can remember exactly how many children she has but double figures would surprise no one. Usually the preserve of the very wealthy, very poor or very Catholic, she and her enormous brood wreak havoc on public transport, in shops and in cinemas. The feral pack can be smelt and heard before it is seen, and what a sight it is: a whirlwind of milk, shit and vomit, wailing and scolding. Some think she is trying to create a master race, others that she is avoiding going back to work. Few think it is because she likes kids.

The Mumpreneur

Fond of saying “this time next year, Rodney” and continually trying to pressgang reluctant friends into doomed ventures, The Mumpreneur is convinced she is destined to run a business empire to rival Elon Musk’s. She tests her friends’ patience by continually interrogating them for market research purposes and referring to them as ‘end users’. The Mumpreneur can make for dreary company if you’re not interested in being the next cupcake or social media magnate but it’s worth hanging in there in case she does strike it rich. She’s going to need company on that yacht.

The Sweatwicker

The Sweatwicker was so determined to lose her pregnancy weight that she was sewn permanently into to her sports gear by the midwife that crocheted her front bottom back together. Forever active, the closest she comes to motionless is jogging on the spot and there are rumours that she sleeps in her Nikes. Her ruddy cheeks and healthy glow fill others with guilt and shame and they secretly wish she would chunk up. One envious woman even stuck a stick in The Sweatwicker’s spokes as cycled by, but instead of falling off the bike she performed three perfect somersaults and a pike before landing back in the saddle and riding on. Curiously, she has never been seen actually sweating.

The Pillar

Often mocked for her do-gooding nature, The Pillar has single-handedly raised more money than Bob Geldoff, Bono and every Blue Peter Bring and Buy Sale put together. Capable of mobilising hoards of reluctant mums, The Pillar would be an incredible COO or army general, but she prefers to ply her skills locally, putting the fear of god into the more slovenly mothers. Her organisational skills and management style do smack a little of fascism, but you can’t fault her efficiency. Occasionally you can taste the fear baked into the school’s bake sale cupcakes, but it’s a small price to pay for those little extras, such as books and teachers.

The Flake

It’s all too much for The Flake. Her brain is utterly atomised by the endless numbers of tasks she must undertake to keep the work, school, domestic, financial, extra curricular, social, and marital aspects of her family’s life running smoothly. She can barely remember her own name, cannot be relied upon to turn up where she is expected and is regularly clueless about which day of the week it is. For fun, ask The Flake what she is doing next Wednesday and watch her weep openly as she wrestles with the concept. She dreams of solitary confinement. Or a labotomy. The Flake will be the one wearing slippers in the playground while her kids shout at her for forgetting mufti day.

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