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There are those who bemoan the inexorable rise of the mummy blogger. They are invariably the same people who make snide, snarky comments about the rise of the mummy internet forum, who complain that noone is much interested if you wish to share the tedious details of your baby’s potty training, weaning or first words, which may be enchanting for you, but dull-asMidsomer-Murders for everybody else.

And it has to be said, there are lots and lots of us (and, yes, very occasionally some of the details are way-out-there tedious). Possibly too many? Personally I think not. Did the world think there were too many Victorian ladies writing in their journals sitting at their bureaus in the 19th century? Of course they didn’t.  These day we may clutch iPads, sit hunched over netbooks or perched at Apple Macs, waiting for inspiration to strike, but we are simply using the technology of our day, to do what men and women have always felt compelled to do: express ourselves, make contact and feel connected with other human beings, and share our experiences. We may not all be modern day Samuel Pepys, but noone is forcing anyone to read anything they don’t want to.

I will never be one of those women who wants to sit all day talking about childcare and nappies and reward charts, while another part of my brain silently rots away. I will probably always feel a little bit like an outsider mum, wondering how the other local mums manage to juggle organising perfect parties, a full calendar of extra-curricular activities and still have time to get their highlights done  and nails wrapped.

Happily, I’ve discovered that the vast majority of mummy bloggers aren’t like that either. The whole point of mummy blogging isn’t to be competitive or sneering, it’s to be supportive and positive.  And whatever your particular bugbear or take on parenting styles (from attachment parenting to let-it-all-hang-out, Seventies-style, permissive parenting), there’s room for everyone in the ever-expanding online universe.

The blogosphere is full of as many types of mother as there are of non-mothers: charismatic, interesting, intelligent women who have something to say about one of the most important experiences of their lives. That’s why I am off to BritMums Live! to hopefully meet some of them.

In Grazia a couple of weeks ago, I read of a trend so horrifying it stuck in my mind for days. It entered my head again last week, when stuck in the dimly lit hell that is A&E at 3.30am, after a bout of unexplained nocturnal infant wheeziness, I found my eyelids drooping towards my knees, and experienced a tiredness so profound it physically hurt. I realised this was the latest I had wilfully stayed up for months (labour excepting, and possibly the odd boozy wedding).

Anyway, the feature told how more mothers of young children were becoming born-again, ‘second-wind’ ravers. These women were going out out to throw some shapes on the dancefloor after dark, coming home in the early hours and feeding their offspring breakfast while experiencing technicolour hangovers. The author revealed how she could be found out reliving her clubby youth with her other 30-something mummy/raver friends ‘most Friday nights’. Admittedly as is often the case, this is probably a trend as told by one 30-something journalist with a book to plug. But it sounds plausible. If Sadie Frost (mother of four) and the rest of the erstwhile Primrose Hill gang could do hardcore partying, why not mere mortals like us?

Erm I’ll tell you why not. While I absolutely love music, and I loved going clubbing up until my mid-to-late 20s – and I’d still love to have the occasional night out on the danceloor, and I’ll never give up going to gigs, even when I’m 50- I can’t think of anything more horrific than regularly (as in ‘most Fridays’) staying out till 4am at some soulless hellhole playing plastic dance music, full of 20-something men with untucked shirts and nauseating chat-up lines. Particularly nauseating as they will inevitably be directed at other 20-somethings, not you.

I don’t particularly want to be the oldest swinger on the dancefloor. I was never that into the whole dressing up thing that much anyway. And I kind of like having a conversation where I don’t have literally stick my tongue down someone else’s earhole in order for them to hear me. But most of all I don’t want to be feel and look even more tired than I do already. Which is very very tired indeed. It’s Ok for Kate and Sadie. They have 24 hour on-call nannies and emergency facialists and whole flotillas of staff to ensure they can carry on socialising in the manner to which they have been accustomed. The rest of us have to organise babysitters, we have to worry about the hours ticking away and our bank balances diminishing, we have to get up at the crack of dawn tomorrow, and clean the house and make the bottle, and organise breakfast and change the baby, and a million other things, before our days even properly begin. The prospect of going out in these circumstances doesn’t feel like a treat to be anticipated with secret delight, it feels like looking forward to a bout of mild to medium torture.

I’m not saying the future is necessarily Baby Loves Disco (I’m equally suspicious about a club designed for both parents and babies.) But I do know, that I won’t be getting out the glowsticks and the white gloves just yet.

 

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This blog is currently dedicated to stuff new mummies like. As opposed to stuff mummies of teenagers like. That's because we don't have teenagers yet. Give us a few years though. We're told it goes pretty quickly...

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