One evening, after an hour of bedtime negotiations, my patience snapped. I had already skim-read Where is the Green Sheep? three times, filled and refilled her beaker of water, cuddled, kissed, lullabied, and even (with gritted teeth) done some soft forehead stroking while singing The Bangles’ Eternal Flame. I was done. She wasn’t…
“I’m still not tired, Mummy.”
“It’s nine-thirty, Nell. Please…”
“No, I want another story.”
But I didn’t have another story in me. My mummy battery was flat. So, in a moment of desperation,
I pulled out my purse and said,… “I will give you five dollars if you just go to sleep.” She snatched it out of my hand and instantly closed her eyes.
As I walked out of her room, I realised I had reached a new low in my parenting journey. I had literally bribed my child to sleep, and even though I was now free to watch Selling Sunset without interruption, a feeling of failure hovered nearby like an annoying, buzzing drone.
That night, as I lay in bed, there was a niggling feeling in my tummy telling me that shop-bought party pies in my kids’ lunch boxes were coming to an end. I knew I didn’t want to be a crappy mum who had to backhand her children. There must be better ways to parent, I thought, as I switched off my bedside lamp.
The next morning, I booked myself into a parenting class. The time had come to stop winging it and spend a year trying to be a better mummy. Less shouting and threats of adoption, more patience and kindness. I wanted to try and become the bread-making, bliss-ball-excreting mummy machine I knew resided within. I would finally transform into the calm, nurturing earth mother I always imagined I’d be.
Spoiler alert: That is not what happened. Instead, I spent a year failing.
I will give myself some credit. I started strong. I read books, listened to podcasts about positive parenting, took deep breaths when I felt myself getting frustrated, and nodded knowingly at advice about “meeting children where they are emotionally.” I tried to be the mother who spoke in soft tones, who never lost her temper, and who managed conflict with a knowing smile and a well-placed, “I understand how you feel.”
But no amount of mindful breathing could prepare me for the real-life chaos of being a mother of three. By week two, I had whispered “for f***’s sake” into the fridge at least thirty times. By month three, I was hiding from the onslaught of demands and chores in the bathroom, hoping no one would find me. And towards the end of the year, I had reverted to crying alone in the Aldi car park with nothing but a family-size packet of pickled onion-flavoured chips to keep me company. I knew then that the mother I expected to be, the mother society wanted me to be… was never going to show up.
But, what did show up was a mum who tried.
The Myth of the Perfect Parent
Somewhere along the way, we’ve been sold this idea that good parenting means never messing up. That if we just try hard enough, read the right books, and avoid raising our voices, we’ll somehow unlock the secret to raising perfectly adjusted children. But here’s the truth which I finally accepted: there is no perfect way to parent. There are only good days and bad days. There are moments when you handle things beautifully and moments when you yell something ridiculous like, “WHY ARE YOUR SHOES IN THE FRIDGE?” There are times when you feel like a hero and times when you feel like a complete failure. And that’s okay.
Because the real job of parenting isn’t about getting it right all the time. It’s about showing up, doing our best, and loving our children even when we’re completely exhausted. So, whenever I get something wrong now…if I buy Kinder Eggs at the supermarket to keep them quiet, forget to show up at prep pamper day, or miss another (motherfunking) excursion form, I know I’m not failing… I’m just parenting.
If I could go back to that night when I handed over five dollars for a few minutes of peace, I wouldn’t change a thing. Not because it was my finest parenting moment, but because it taught me something invaluable:My children won’t remember my rubbish mumming. What they will remember is my love. The unconditional love that fills the space between my failures. The love that holds up our family like scaffolding. A love they can fall back on whenever life gets complicated. Unlike my mood, my love is unchanging, there, always. So, if you feel like you’re failing, you’re not. You’re just parenting. And that, my tired mummy friends, is enough.
Victoria Vanstone is an award-winning podcaster, writer, and professional over-sharer. As the host of Sober Awkward and the creator of Drunk Mummy Sober Mummy, she has made it her mission to talk about the messy, hilarious, and brutally honest realities of sobriety and parenting. Her writing has been featured in Mamamia, ABC, and The Sydney Morning Herald, where she shares her unique perspective on motherhood, mental health, and why failing is actually a crucial part of the journey.
Her latest book, Mumming, is a comedy memoir about parenting imperfections, the relentless chaos of raising kids, and the realisation that no one really knows what they’re doing. Following the success of her first memoir, A Thousand Wasted Sundays, Mumming dives headfirst into the hilarity and heartache of trying (and often failing) to be a ‘good mum’.
Mumming is available at booktopia and all good bookshops.
IG: @drunkmummysobermummy
W: soberawkward.com