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And I’d hazard a guess that the children of these resentful, gin-soaked mothers — who are, in reality, educated middle-class authors — are actually very well cared for, enjoy organic fruit and vegetables and sleep in clean pyjamas.
And as they slumber, Mummy is more likely to be working hard at her laptop than smashed off her face in front of the TV.
It views the trials and tribulations of parenthood as nothing more than rich pickings for personalised ‘laugh out loud’ moments to share among your social media followers.
More than the apparent dishonesty, though, what really annoys me is how these books patronise women by suggesting that a home-cooked meal, laundered baby clothes and clean nappies are beyond the wit of most mums.
In this race to the bottom to prove yourself the worst mother ever, women compete to seem incapable of caring for their children’s basic needs, revolted by the reality of changing nappies or simply bored to tears by the monotonous routine of bringing up a little one.
On no account can you feel fulfilled as a mother, or be adept at caring for your children.
Wine-soaked parents with dirty, undernourished children who snarl expletives are a matter for concern, not funny fodder, as even Hogarth managed to see back in 1751.
Indeed, a kind of dimwit narcissism abounds in this ‘look at me, I’m a terrible parent’ shtick.