There are people who do a lot, and then there are Mum’s. Woman who treat daily life like an Olympic triathlon, except the medals are three children with varying degrees of ‘attitude’ and a dog who sheds enough fur to knit a family of alpacas.

Every morning, this Mum wakes up with the energy of someone who might possibly get a spa day sometime soon (even though she knows she absolutely will not). This Mum resigns herself to packing lunches, organising bags and making the Girl at least two cuppas in bed. Echoing shouts of “HURRY UP” and “WE ARE LEAVING IN TWO MINUTES” at least six times before anyone even puts shoes on all pre-date the never ending school run. After which, this Mum heads off to ‘real’ work, one with adult people and where she is expected to function,

Then Mum comes home and works again in her second job. Only this jobs lacks the perks of annual leave, sick days or any sort of salary (if only endless washing could pay the bills).

Housework, homework, laundry, dinner, dishes, dog walking, life admin, emotional support, referee duties, taxi driver and the nightly ritual of shouting “DO YOUR FUCKING TEETH” (minus the fucking because this Mum absolutely does not swear in front of the kids).

This Mum doesn’t sit. This Mum doesn’t stop. This Mum doesn’t rest. This Mum is absolutely powered entirely by caffeine, maternal guilt, and the faint hope that one day she’ll have a day where no one asks her for a snack and just maybe the washing basket is empty.

And then it happened.

One dramatic twist, one heroic attempt to put her sock on whilst standing and carry all the laundry upstairs in one go, and pop — her back gave out like a cheap garden chair.

Suddenly, this Mum was about as useful as a chocolate teapot. Immobilised. Ordered to rest and reliant on her kids.

Rest.

The one thing she has really never trained for.

The husband, bless him, tried to help. Brought her tea, put her socks on, pulled her up out of the chair and made dinner four nights in a row. Which consisted of BBQ meat with a side of BBQ meat and the very real possibility of the 7 year old developing gout.

Most people, when told to rest, would think, “fuck, yeah.”

Not this Mum.

Within ten minutes of sitting still, this Mum was twitching. Within twenty she was mentally reorganising the kitchen cupboards. Within thirty she was trying to fold laundry from the sofa using a grabber tool she found in the garage.

She tried writing, she tried to fucking scroll, but the guilt of not doing something house work related was louder than the accumulation of crumbs on the floor that were screaming to be swept up.

She tried reading, but every page reminded her of something she needed to clean.

She tried meditating, but the dog sat on her chest and farted. Not really.

She even tried to hold a conversation with her husband who told her to “just relax,” which was at that moment, perhaps the fastest way to make this mum consider divorce.

Eventually, after hours of lying still like a disgruntled Victorian patient, Mum had a rare and quiet moment of clarity.

Maybe this Mum does do too much.

Maybe the world won’t collapse if she rests and doesn’t clean the floor 17 times a day.

Maybe the children can survive one evening without her jumping to their every whim.

Maybe her husband can learn where the dishes go.

Maybe the dog can walk himself……

The beautiful, profound moment lasted 14 seconds because the washing machine started playing it’s “I’m done, get of your bum and empty me” song and at least one child needed a drink, snack, poo…

So the moral of the story….

Mum will heal and will once again be functioning at her usual superhuman pace. She’ll probably still dream of the spa day her husband will eternally promise and never book.

But maybe she’ll learn that sitting still doesn’t mean she’s failing, providing the sitting part lasts no more than 20 minutes and happens very infrequently.

It just means this Mum is human. A very tired, very busy, very loved Mum-human who has now perfected folding laundry with a grabber.