Don't you just sometimes want to ram your Mclaren stroller in to the group of alpa-mothers hogging the swings at the playground, or at least 'accidentally' knock over their triple wet no-milk no-coffee hot-cold americano or something.
This breed of zombie-like women staring at their children, not letting them go for even a second, their vacant smiles glued to their faces as they keep a steady stream of nasal yapping coming out of their mouth:
- Good job, buddy. Good girl - let's grab the bucket, good job, now let's use our shovel to put some sand in the bucket, that's it, good job, buddy, no let's turn the bucket up side down, good job-
I mean, come on, if they don't get bored by the sound of their own voices, please spare a thought for the rest of us.
And in between the nasal yapping of fake enthusiasm is the conversation with the other alpha mothers, the high-pitched, too fast for the human ear to catch, stream of competitive note-swapping on pre-schools, play-groups, toddler science, music fun, which sun-block works and how much of an age gap is appropriate between kid two and kid three?
These alpha mothers reassure me that being a mother is the best thing that has ever happened to them and yet they are sucking every last drop of want out of my own body. Being a mother and ending up like that?
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