Y’yummy mummy

 

You get your Armani

You get your Pri-marni

Your 6am sale chaser, the Next big splurger and your Blue Cross piranha

The ones content to swim through an aisle of lackluster But

I need a gut buster

dragging my ass through TU, tut tut tutting

f f f Fancy pants at F and F

aware of the back fat, and the

mid-riff

– –

Yes, you get your yummy mummies

Love their tummy mummies

Slouch and embrace the bulge mummies

Wearing it like a muffin-top badge of maternity,

un-toned bodies from beneath oversized tee-shirts,

shouting, yes!

I am a mummy!

 

– –

I’m a supermarket mummy –

The Sainsbury’s shopper,

buying whatever is on the shelf,

left over

Briefly whisking through rails for something

that I can fit into ‘comfortably’

without ever having to go in to town, i can’t stand it, especially on my own,

I’ll avoid it and just stay home,

occasionally popping out

Without

ever having to face the reality

that It’s not a New Look 8 staring back at me

No more H&M 10,

Or supermarket 12!

 

– –

Hell

The longer I put off seeing people,

going out with people,

socialising

and spending,

I can put off admitting to myself that

 

I have become

that mummy,

that

i

never

wanted

to be.

That boring mother, hiding away beneath as much jersey as I can lay my hands on,

tattooed signs of my old self peeping out

and my dyed hair is now in fact dual purpose. I have no doubt.

My life is one extended supermarket trip

And now this…

When did I become THE supermarket mommy?

when did i cease to exist?