By Gemma Corfield
The glossy perfection of social media parenting is nothing like the relentless, soul-sucking, anxiety-inducing reality of actual parenting.
What I remember about being a child was discipline – though my parents would argue that my willpower rivalled that of a small but determined dictator. I recall one particular incident when I got a smack on the bum, but, being the tactical genius I was, I put my hand in the way. Big mistake. I had to go to A&E because I was convinced my hand was broken. All while being told, “we will tell the doctor the truth, that you were being naughty and this is why it happened”. The doctor examined my hand, looked me dead in the eye, and said: “Well, you probably deserved that smack.” It turned out my hand was fine – but my will was well and truly broken.
And now, as a parent, I, too, scroll through Instagram and TikTok, bombarded by the idealised version of gentle parenting – calm conversations, educational toys and neutral-coloured nurseries that look more like high-end spas than a house where a child should be throwing spaghetti at the wall. The expectation of the extravagant gender reveal (because a simple “It’s a boy/girl!” is no longer enough), the Pinterest-perfect baby shower and the serene birth experience where the mother somehow has flawless hair, a contoured face and a fresh manicure – as if she hadn’t just gone through one of the most painful experiences of her life.
Let me tell you, there is no filter in real-life parenting.
No one posts pictures of the screaming toddler at Tamba Park who you put in a time-out because you simply refused to be defeated by a tiny dictator. All the while, families stood around, watching, judging, ready to clutch their pearls. Well, I stood my ground. I told the crowd – who looked at me in disbelief for actually trying to parent my child – that she had three minutes in time-out, and we’d all be waiting right there until her sentence was served and she apologised.
To my surprise the onlookers approved. I even got a few “good for you!” remarks. And, just like in prison, she did her time and was released.
Or, Christ, have you ever taken them shopping only to experience an emergency in aisle five because your toddler just realised you breathed in their direction? Well, heels down and kick on, because those tantrums are feral, and you’ll need serious endurance if you want to make it out without bribing them with sweets.
No one captures the existential crisis of a mother hiding in the kitchen, shovelling snacks into her mouth like a rabid raccoon, just trying to get two minutes of silence.
And yet social media makes me feel like I should be sitting cross-legged on the floor, calmly narrating my child’s emotions, like some kind of parenting guru, while they hurl their dinner across the room.
The reality? I am running a pirate ship, and the crew are in full-blown mutiny mode. So, I do what any responsible captain would – I turn to rum.
Risk assessments and accepting defeat
Parenting has cost me my sanity. It has gifted me with depression and anxiety, and I swear I perform a mental risk assessment every time one of them moves. I don’t even get a chance to approve their next move because they’ve already done it, and now I’m cleaning up the consequences.
Then, of course, there was the “artistic expression” phase – aka drawing on every single surface in the house. The walls, the floors, the furniture, me. Nothing was safe.
At first, I fought it. I threatened. I scrubbed. I repainted. I yelled.
Then, I gave up and reverted to the rum.
I went full “if you can’t beat them, enable them” mode and put colouring wallpaper on the walls. Because at this point, resistance is futile.
And don’t even get me started on mealtimes.
The sheer joy of spending money on groceries, cooking a nutritious, balanced meal, only to be met with “I don’t like it” – despite the fact they haven’t even looked at it, let alone tasted it.
I should just skip the middleman and throw the food straight in the bin.
At one point, I even considered buying plastic fruit for their lunchboxes – just so their teachers would think they were getting their daily nutrients. Would have saved me money, sanity and food waste.
The joys of full-time work (and then more work)
And all of this while working a full-time job, giving my all to a career, only to come home and start my real full-time job (which, might I add, costs me money, dignity and occasionally the will to live).
Social media would be so much better if it showed the truth – the unfiltered, chaotic, oh-my-God-is-this-normal? reality of raising tiny humans. Not the carefully curated, “look-how-happy-we-are-for-this-one-second-while-the-camera-is-on” moment that makes the rest of us feel like feral gremlins raising other, smaller feral gremlins.
I often joke that I’m a terrible parent. But, really, I’m just comparing my efforts to a completely unrealistic version of parenting. It’s like trying to match up to a beauty standard that only exists with filters and Facetune.
What’s the silver lining?
The truth is, my kids – sorry, my ferals – are happy, healthy and loved.
They are provided for in every way that matters. Sure, I could do some things better, but, honestly, who couldn’t?
And if anyone disagrees, they can come and babysit for a weekend.
I’ll provide the rum.
Oh, and the cherry on top?
My youngest recently gave me a birthday card that read: “Happy birthday to my favourite bad influence!”
And, honestly, moments like that make it all worth while.
