Glamma Mamas

A friend of mine, a good, kind and generous friend of mine, has asked me to allow her some space, to get a little something off her chest. Something that she needs to get expunge, without recourse from the very clique she writes about...

I give her my love, and let her spill, here, on my blog.

I suspect we can all relate to her words.


I call them the glamma mamas.

A few of us do.

They’re the ones who do the school run in their gym kit in full make-up. They’re the ones who run late picking up their kids from school, usually because they’ve lingered over their liquid lunch with their “besties.”

We’re “allowed” to be friends with them on Facebook which is three shades of awesome. This is mainly because we get to see photos of all the parties, balls and social events they organize but never invite us to.

I’ve learned to circumvent the stab in the heart this causes by blocking their feed there.

They’ve got the art of small talk, but very little else. If you can capture a glamma mama’s attention for long enough, the talk is usually about the nail bars they frequent or how the person tweezing their eyebrows simply isn’t doing their job properly.

If I sound bitter, it’s because I am.

Because I’m the one who waits with their kids after school until mum totters in on her impossibly high heels. Meanwhile I’ve soothed their children and assured them “Mummy will come.” (Eventually)

I’m the one who wishes that I too be could be effortlessly glamorous and exude an air of entitlement.

I wish I could be invited to their parties and it was me in those pictures looking amazing on Facebook.

But I won’t be.

I love my life, my family, my friends, my job. But I must admit to a slight stomach churning about dealing with the school run again this year.

It’s bad enough dealing with my children and their grief when they feel excluded or left out at school. But it serves to magnify my own all the more.

It seems that when I left high school, it didn’t leave me. But while I see their gilded world for what it is, shallow and meaningless. I can’t help thinking, that sometimes, just sometimes; it would be nice to be included.

Sometimes, being a grown up sucks.

Sometimes we need to rise above it with grace, as I know she does.
 
Tell me, do you suffer the glamma mama syndrome?