I have reached the age where half my Facebook feed is pictures of other people’s children: babies smearing their faces with mashed banana, toddlers taking their first steps, kids in their school uniforms proudly holding trophies and certificates. I’m used to it. At times I really enjoy it; a chance to see the children of loved ones I don’t get to see as much as I’d like.  (FYI: The other half of my FB is childless friends posting pics of themselves in bars, at gigs or cheerfully toasting a cocktail on a far away beach. Me? Jealous? Never!)

Last week, more kiddy pictures than usual seemed to appear as friends joined in the Facebook Motherhood Challenge. Women basically post photos which make them ‘proud to be a mother’ then nominate some other ‘amazing mums’ to do the same.

Reactions to this social media phenomenon have been mixed. Many have loved it, eagerly joining in. Some have inevitably hated it, griping and moaning that they have to see yet more pictures of other people’s children. Others have, quite rightly, questioned the name. A challenge? Posting some pictures? Not exactly climbing Everest. 

In this article, The Guardian suggests that it is an exercise in smugness, thoughtlessly ignoring those women who don’t have children and offending people by creating a smug clique. I’m not sure what has made the writer quite so angry, but perhaps there are some valid points. It must be hard to see these images if you are trying to have children, or have lost children, and perhaps we should think about that a little more. But to imply that people joining in this largely harmless activity are cruel and offensive seems a little over the top. 

The Pool wrote a similar but less aggressive article, suggesting that seeing these images of happy smiling mums and their children divides us, making many others feel bad about themselves because they, at that moment, are not particularly happy and smiling.

At first, I tended to agree with these articles. I’d enjoyed seeing pictures of my friends’ children, but wasn’t this a bit much?

Then, on my way home from nursery this morning, I began to think differently. Trundling along in the drizzle, exhausted, snotty, straining from a bad back and with a snoring baby strapped to my chest, I missed the green man. I sighed and, faced with all of two minutes before I could cross, I reached for my phone. As I pressed the on button, it dawned on me how this has become my go to action in moments of inaction. What was I hoping to achieve? I had no messages, no one to contact and would only faff around for 30 seconds on Facebook before putting it away again and crossing. And I do this all the time! Why?

Because, at the moment, I’m a stay at home mum. There are times I can go for hours, even whole days, without having a conversation with an actual adult. I adore my sons, but when 90% of your day’s conversation revolves around someone else’s food choices, toileting needs and identifying different types of tiny plastic dinosaurs, sometimes you need a way to reach out to someone else. And isn’t that what social media was made for? If you looked at my Facebook activity, it would most certainly spike when I’m on maternity leave, and especially on days when my husband works late.

Maybe these women aren’t smug. Maybe they’re lonely. Maybe they’re a bit bored. Maybe they’ve spent the morning cleaning urine off the floor, tackling a mound of washing which towers over their head, trying to get work done while Peppa Pig blares in the background, all while perpetually yawning because they were up 5 times in the night. 

If spending 5 minutes scrolling through photos which remind you of why you love being a mum (or dad – surely there should be a fatherhood challenge out there somewhere?) cheers you up when a baby has just thrown up all over you, and getting comments allows you to have a brief virtual chat with friends, where’s the harm?

If we don’t like it, we don’t have to look. Maybe we should just get off Facebook for a while and get some perspective. That’s what I’m going to do. Right after I post a link to this blog post…

There’s an unwritten rule that no one can slag off your home town except yourself. It is fine for you to gripe and moan about where you come from, but as soon as someone else has a go, you become staunchly proud of your roots and demand that your hometown is the best place in the world!

I should know. Coming from Bradford, I have more reason to invoke this than most. My hometown has been host to race riots, the area I grew up in once elected a BNP councillor (imagine me shuddering with horror as I admit this) and the majority of the town centre was nothing but a giant hole and a pile of rubble for the best part of the last ten years as a failing economy stalled the only major development to grace Bradford in decades.

These are among the many reasons I left fifteen years ago. Since then, I have only returned for brief stopovers between jobs and travels or to visit my family and friends.

But try to slag it off yourself and see how proudly I’ll defend its diversity and cultural heritage, despite not living there for over a decade. It’s my right. There’s plenty I dislike about it, but it’s my home and I love it.

As I settle into my second stint of maternity leave, I’m wondering if there’s a similar rule for being a mum.

Yesterday, I found myself at a rare loose end – my eldest was at nursery, my youngest was asleep in the pram and I didn’t have time to go home before I was due at baby massage. I snuck into a cosy café and settled myself for an indulgent half hour with a good book (not a bad life!).

Unfortunately, I had pitched up next to two more mums killing time. Let’s face it, that’s all that cafes are full of during the day: mums and lots of ‘creative-types’, tapping away at their fancy laptops as they stretch out one drink for two hours to avoid paying for any actual office space.

I tried to concentrate on my book, but was endlessly distracted by nosy toddlers peering at my baby and their mums’ inane chatter. I began to pay more attention to them and less to my book, and a sad realisation dawned on me. Mums are boring. Really boring! In the time I sat next to them they had long conversations debating the merits of carrot sticks over rice cakes as a snack, and telling each other their children’s sleep patterns in intricate detail. I don’t mean to be rude, but even they looked bored. Bored by their own thoughts; in desperate need of some adult conversation, but unable to come up with any substance for it.

Please mum, give it a rest!

I’m being horrible. I know I am, and I knew it then, but I have a get out clause. I can moan about boring mums, because I am one! At times I can hold interesting conversations: debate the merits and perils of bombing Syria; discuss which Booker Prize winner is my favourite; discuss whether or not Luther is the true masterpiece of TV drama (erm, yes it is and it’s on again in a few weeks! Yey!!!). Yet much of the time I find myself rambling on about how well my eldest son can write the letter ‘A’ or explaining how I’ve been won over by cloth nappies over disposables. It’s important to me, but I know it’s dull as dishwater to the vast majority of the population, me included. Sadly, that doesn’t stop me.

The truth is, a lot of the time, I am boring. Because mums are boring. But it’s ok. I’m allowed to say it, because I am one, and I bloody love it!

One of the many struggles you encounter as a parent in the early days is finding things to do. Figuring out how the hell to fill your days when you don’t have to go to work. Hour upon hour stretches out in front of you with nothing to fill it except 45 minutes of singing ‘Wind the Bobbin Up’ in a rundown old community centre, led by a man who looks as if he’s walked straight out of a Little Britain sketch. Not exactly an action packed day.

Yet somehow, despite these hours of nothingness and your desperation to fill them, you can find yourself sitting at the end of the day worrying about all the things you should have done, but didn’t have the time.

How is it that you had nothing to do, but couldn’t get anything done? Yet somehow, had loads of stuff you should have done, but didn’t? It doesn’t make any sense.

A realistic mum’s to do list

The conundrum increases as time goes on.

As your child grows, you suddenly discover a whole host of things you need to do. Endless doctor’s appointments, health visitors’ visits and baby drop in sessions. It’s a good job you get maternity leave, because how would these things get done otherwise?

Your child continues to grow, and it gets worse. Now you have playgroups and classes to get to, on top of your child’s daily demands to go to the park. Then there are visits to choose childminders, then nurseries, then schools. Once they’re in nursery or school, there are endless meetings, shows, parents’ evenings and all sorts in between. It’s a wonder anyone manages to make it into work when they have children.

All the time, every time you get close to achieving something, someone in your family starts crying, needs feeding or announces they’ve pooed in their pants (hopefully one of the children!) and all your good efforts go right out the window.

And so you enter the great Catch 22 of parenting. You have loads to do, but no time to do it, despite having loads of time to fill with nothing to do. You reach the end of the day and realise you’ve achieved nothing. Then you beat yourself up about it, make a to-do list, fail it the following day, and repeat ad infinitum.

How to deal with this problem? Don’t worry. I’ve created a handy step by step guide to getting stuff done with kids:

1. Do anything that HAS to be done, i.e. anything which risks your children ending up in hospital or being taken away if you don’t do it.
2. Sod everything else.
3. Eat some cake.

There. That’s one thing sorted.