Mum Face: The Memoir of a Woman who Gained a Baby and Lost Her Sh*t
In this wry, resonant and darkly funny memoir, journalist Grace Timothy explores a question most women will face at some point: if becoming a mother means the person you were before has gone; who exactly is left in its place?Best described as The Wrong Knickers for mums, in Mum Face Grace explores motherhood as an issue of identity.What begins as shock and then denial of how your life will change has to become acceptance when you’re too big to walk/waddle/work; you’re fully repurposed now; you’re a mum, in everything you do, and everyone knows it. From the physical and emotional changes you encounter to the way your agenda and daily life is altered, your identity is constantly up for redefinition. As the friends and colleagues who shape and support your sense of self slip away, work dwindles as every hour becomes a moment you should be with your child, and your confidence is knocked by the constant feedback from everyone, you try and fit in everywhere – old life, new life – and don’t fit anywhere. It’s the identity crisis that no woman is immune to, belying the credo that being a mother is the most natural thing a girl could do.Grace has experienced mum rage, mom jeans, mum-tum, mum-hair and had to put on her mum face to cope with it all. These are the truths of motherhood too uncomfortable to flow forth at your NCT meet-ups. From bad sex, messed-up friendships and irretrievable labia to questioning everything and everyone around you.The hilarious book follows Grace’s journey from a young married woman at the top of her editorial game in London, to a thirty-something mum, confused as to how she can love someone as much as her daughter and yet feel lost as a person.Compulsively readable, irresistibly written and incredibly well-observed, Grace Timothy’s searingly-honest account of motherhood is essential reading for every mum trying to find their way after the mother of all identity crises.
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First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018
FIRST EDITION
© Grace Timothy 2018
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018
Cover photographs © Andrew Brown/Shutterstock.com
A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library
Grace Timothy asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
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Source ISBN: 9780008271008
Ebook Edition © February 2018 ISBN: 9780008271015
Version: 2018-02-09
This book is dedicated to my girl, of course. Kid, you made me as much as I made you, and the world is so much better with you in it. I love you. Thanks for your patience, your joyousness and your helpful notes. You’re already wise and funny beyond your years. I’m excited about you, bubs – go get it.
CONTENTS
2. THE SECOND TRIMESTER/DENIAL
3. THE THIRD TRIMESTER/ACCEPTANCE
I attempt to sit still, to look as relaxed and open as possible, but I’m on one of those chairs that leans back on a bendy frame. You know the ones? That kind of plastic-looking blonde wood with a creamy-coloured leather cushion. I looked it up online after our session – it’s from IKEA (obviously) and it’s called ‘Poang’, which is Swedish for ‘point’. As in, what’s the point? I think people buy them as nursing chairs, too.
Well, I would have lost a nipple if I’d tried to breastfeed in this chair, let me tell you. My stomach muscles were shot to hell once I’d given birth and I’d have been about as steady on a rocking chair as a drunken eel. Plus, my vagina was so mashed up, the idea of grinding it back and forth on a beech veneer would have broken me for good. I definitely rocked in those early days, but it was more of the rocking-in-a-dark-corner type of move, deprived of sleep and a functioning pelvic floor. The sort you can do on completely immobile furniture or even the floor.
You have to be so cocky to make one of these chairs rock gently and comfortingly, and not throw you off like a spooked horse. I am not cocky or relaxed in this scenario, and have to slam my feet down suddenly to steady myself. I’m aware it’s made me look uneasy. One false move and you look like you can’t handle it. This chair is basically a metaphor for motherhood and the predicament I find myself in now.
I am sitting here in a stranger’s living room with no shoes or socks on. Bit weird. It’s OK, I’m actually here for a nice bit of reflexology, with a birthday voucher from my mum and I’m finally getting round to using it six months later, on the day it expires. ‘You deserve a bit of a treat, darling,’ she’d told me at the time, ‘You look a bit knackered.’ Weird way to kick me when I’m down, I think, smiling through clenched teeth at the thought of trying to fit in this so-called treat, and of the new electric toothbrush I’d hinted at for three weeks. But my mum volunteered to babysit and now here I am on Pat’s Poang, answering her questions about my medical history.
I’m an easy customer in this respect – no operations, no medications, no family history of diabetes. Uneventful pregnancy and straight-forward vaginal delivery. Couple of stitches, nothing to write home – or down on a form – about. I don’t have so much as a high blood pressure or a tennis elbow, so we whizz through the checklist. A nice little foot rub, I think to myself, Might be awkward when she finds the verruca I picked up at BabySwim, but otherwise, I’ll just sit here, relax, be serene … Then she says it:
‘And how about your emotional wellbeing, how are you feeling right now?’
I smile, a smile I plaster on my face, which should say I’m fine! But usually makes people take a step back and ask, ‘Are you sure?’ from a safe distance. It’s become my MUM FACE – the mask that covers up the underlying cocktail of anxiety and bewilderment which has been simmering since I gave birth nearly three years ago. But this time, it slips:
‘I would say … well, I am maybe a bit anxious. Well, a lot. And most of the time, too.’
