I’d be fibbing if I said The Mumsnet thread hadn’t rocked my somewhat rainbow hued boat; or, at least temporarily punctured my Instagram-bubble of confidence in people’s kindness. I’d managed to learn from its well-hidden teaching with regards to a layperson’s understanding of all the garb surrounding #ad or #gifted and adjust my posts to ensure no one was left unclear as to whether money had changed hands, I’d been sent a freebie or if it required #Ipayforshittoo! I’d taken the constructive feedback and managed to move on to a more positive place, until the subtext of that thread was thrust back in my path amongst the comments on my instagram, similar to a mouthful-of-Weetabix sneeze coming your way – it was unexpected, a bit grainy and not wholly welcome.
It was a well-meaning comment on an average Instagram post; the image is irrelevant to this tome, but the comment, in part, tickled my goat again. It’s the perception that ALL “insta-mums” are “well-off/middle-class” and occasionally flouted as “elitist” that irks my tits.
It seems like only a few weeks ago I was writing about why we didn’t “do” presents last Christmas for all the boys – and yet now, my Grinch like antics have spread like the Child-Catchers sneeze of doom to Casper’s second birthday this coming Monday. Yes, my darling little cherub of a ‘baby’ is turning two and what are we, his abnormally large immediate family doing about it? Diddly squat, that’s what?! There’ll be no Daily Mail headlines of this toddler’s parents lavishing him with a diamond-encrusted tractor ride party at Daylesford Farm with Mr Tumble and co as special guests, at a grand cost of £237k; in fact, the headline will just about make it to my personal Facebook page and perhaps my Instagram, with a modest picture of the tot in question ramming his face with the Asda equivalent of Colin the Caterpillar cake. Last minute guilt might also manifest in the shape of a Gruffalo helium balloon.
It was only last week I was waxing lyrical about being real when it comes to being a mummy – how for every pic that makes it to my instagram feed there have been at least 10 almost identical images, just not quite so flattering. With 5 boys in tow from 0-13 getting everyone in one frame, looking in roughly the same direction and without flipping the bird, is nothing short of a miracle . So, on these rare occasions I plaster that bloody pic everywhere in the same way a fashionista might brandish her black, snakeskin Berkin bag she found in a charity shop for £4.99! Yes, that’s how I feel about the wonder of a picture featuring all 5 boys, in some semblance of “acceptable” – like I’ve stumbled across a £30k bag for a couple of quid!