A glass of wine won’t help me cope with parenting – it will destroy me

Striving for perfection is taking its toll on Charlotte Cripps. It’s time she does a U-turn and adopts squatter chic for a week

(Amara May)

I’ve seen all the slummy mummy blogs: Brummy Mummy, The Unmumsy Mum, the Single Slummy Mummy, the Scummy Mummies. But they are not for me. And Mummy Needs Wine is totally out of my league as I haven’t had a drink for 21 years after a terrible rock bottom. The odd glass of wine won’t help my sanity while coping with the highs and lows of parenting and “hellidays”. No, it will destroy me, and my kids would likely be taken off me. It’s scary. That’s why I’m in 12-step recovery. 

As a mum – who reaches for carbs in a crisis – I’m more of a perfectionist. But I have to be honest, I’m so fed up with it. So I’ve decided to do a U-turn for therapeutic reasons. The look I’m going for this week is squatter chic. It’s not too difficult to achieve with the dog and the kids if I just don’t clear up. I’m going to stop wanting everything clean and serene. 

But why am I striving for perfection? It’s elusive and expensive. If Lola scooters into a white gloss kitchen door and dents it, I replace it. My paycheck is spent on stain remover powder to erase tomato marks on kid’s clothes – a tub costs £18. I fill my trolley with cleaning products, not bottles of sauvignon.

Is it a throwback from my childhood that makes me feel under pressure to be perfect? Surely I can’t blame it all on my wealthy Notting Hill neighbours. Of course, it’s easy to go into a shame spiral just walking out of my pink front door. 

Never again will I make the mistake of getting caught wearing latex gloves while carrying dog poo bags to the front bins in boxer shorts pre-leg wax. I was mortified when a glam mum waved at me from the street looking all friendly until she spotted how dishevelled I looked. I ducked under the bin chutes gesturing in a friendly manner but secretly I was gutted. 

It wasn’t always like this when I bought the flat in the dump end of north Kensington, but it has become a yummy mummy haven. I shouldn’t let such superficial things bother me – who cares? But I do. They say perfection is the enemy of good. After years of therapy I know it stems from a fear of not being good enough or wanting a sense of control, but that doesn’t change it. 

Since the kid’s nanny has left, I have childcare, but not her magic touch around the flat. I’ve been trying to scrub it up and fold the kid’s clothes just like she did. I’m bathing the kids twice a day just to make sure they look spick and span. I flash bleach the dog’s mud off the walls. I have gone totally OCD on cleanliness. I’m even wiping Muggles paws with Dettol wipes. Something has got to give; I’m going to implode. 

It all clicks when Lola says to me: “Mum why are you always shouting?” And I didn’t know what to say. So, I google “why do people always shout?” – and what seems to stick with me is stress. While losing my rag might be a stress relief for me, it’s not for those around me. 

Never again will I make the mistake of getting caught wearing latex gloves while carrying dog poo bags to the front bins in boxer shorts pre-leg wax

Right, put the brakes on, as we were always told in rehab when we started acting out. Am I turning into a dry drunk? How many times can I apologise to my kids when I yell?  It’s not about saying sorry 10 to 15 times a day, it’s about changing my behaviour. Am I powerless? Do I need an anger/ impatience workshop? No, I need a spa day, but there is no chance of that in lockdown. How can I get through the school run without shouting? Do I need a reward chart to help me to break the cycle? 

I’m hoping I might find some kind of balance if I take the route of wild abandon. I’m going to adopt the mantra: “What would Slash do?” “It’s a useful tool for your kit box,” my mum friend Mel tells me after reading the Guns n Roses guitarist’s autobiography – if you find yourself worrying too much about what other people say, think and do. She also suggests I read the book The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F***. 

I’ve always been aiming for perfectionism since I was a young girl. I was top of the class, I won all the sporting cups and I was lacrosse team captain. The constant battle of staying/getting/trying to be thin haunted me for years in the form of food disorders. Then I fell spectacularly from grace and dived into the depths of addiction. Was my car-crash rock-bottom triggered by a high achieving childhood? 

I might have dealt with my demons but I still need to knock this perfectionism on the head when it rears its ugly head. I don't want to be a cocktail of character defects for the sake of my children. 

I start trying to smile in a wholesome way like a mum on a yoga retreat as I wake the kid’s up for breakfast. I want to create a new-age hippy environment with meditation music blaring. I find a wind chime that I put up at the garden door. I start to play with the kids rather than tidy up. 

To hell with tomato stains from spag bol; if you like eating it with your hands and rubbing it all over your clothes, go for it! It’s liberating for me

When I see a post from another mum with her children covered in mud from head to toe squealing with delight, I encourage my kids to get down and dirty. But why do they always reach for the wet wipes? I’ve instilled this need to be perfect in them but now I want to undo it. Liberty usually paints all over the table but when I tell her to use as many squeezy paint pens as she wants, she says “sorry mum” five times because a green drop of paint falls on her lap. 

They look at me as if I'm possessed – “mum are you OK?” “Don’t worry! Make as much mess as you like!” I tell them. But the more I say it, the less mess they make? It’s like reverse psychology. 

To hell with tomato stains from spag bol; if you like eating it with your hands and rubbing it all over your clothes, go for it! It’s liberating for me. As I tread through the mess and leave piles of washing and plates in the sink, the place looks like a hovel. It never looked this bad even in the depths of my addiction, but am I any happier? 

No, I can’t keep it up. I call in a local industrial cleaning company. I take the kids out so they can tackle the mess. When we get back from the car wash – I had let the kids and the dog turn the car into a gigantic dustbin – I inspect their work. “Thanks guys but there is a chip still hanging off under the oven door,” I tell them. I get the flash bleach out as they leave and give it a once over. “Stop kids…”  I’m about to say as Liberty takes all the play food out of her toy kitchen and packs it into bags and a pretend trolley – but then I stop myself. All that glitters is not gold. Just like those perfect Instagram posts I see, it’s not always as perfect as it looks behind closed doors. I can tidy up later.