I have three children, a full-time job, and a to-do list with a life of its own.
I am a mum, and I work outside the home, and I am busy.
Yet I will never, ever describe myself as a Busy Working Mum.
It’s just a description, isn’t it? So why does even the sound of it make my teeth itch?
After all, I should be the perfect target demographic for all those adverts I see aimed at the Busy Working Mum, trying to sell me everything from frozen Yorkshire puddings to all-inclusive holidays. Last week, I even saw one offering ready meals just perfect for my lifestyle. I can only imagine that they promise to keep my efficiency and selflessness topped up to optimal levels as I whisk briskly through my days.
So yes, it may be a description, but it’s hardly a definition. It means precisely zero. What value is there in a label available to any woman with offspring in receipt of a salary and withheld from any who’s not? What, after we all, do “we” uniquely have in common?
It is nonsense to suggest that there’s some commonality of experience which binds together the woman doing a couple of school-hour days round the corner with the single mother scraping by on minimum-wage night-time shifts; the high flyer with a nanny clocking up a working week in triple figures with a part-timer whose parents or partners are on hand. Do we really believe that the simple fact of being paid for a portion of our time means that life is unavoidably harder, busier and more stressful than that of someone who doesn’t or can’t work for whatever reason?
If it’s not a definition, then it’s certainly not an identity. It’s not the badge of honour I see it used as so often on Facebook posts or comments underneath articles online. “As a busy working mum” they start, before going on to outline why the commenter wishes she had the time to do or be or worry about whatever the subject of the article is. It’s a hard thing to say in this climate of “doing the right thing” by working, but having a job doesn’t confer any virtue or superiority in and of itself. I’m owed precisely nothing for working beyond the salary agreed with my boss. Sure, I pay tax and National Insurance, but that’s because I work, not the reason I do it. If you disagree, and you yourself work fewer hours or at a lower wage than you could…well, that doesn’t really stack up, does it?
And if I reject it as an identity, then I sure as hell won’t accept it as a destiny.
In our fairly bog-standard journey to parenthood, there has been one solitary inevitable given in the combination of family life with employment: that it would be me who would need some period away from work while the babies made their exits. All the rest, from (our relatively generous) maternity leave to who gets the call when little Jimmy barfs on the carpet at story time is the result of our society and its (and our) expectations. There is no particular chromosomal composition that confers a greater ability to RSVP to party invites and buy school uniforms, but “Busy Working Mum” in all her harassed glory suggests otherwise.
Perhaps I’m being over sensitive. Perhaps you wish you had the time to be bothered about it. Perhaps you’re right. But do me a favour. Look out for references to “busy working men”, or “busy working carers”, or “busy working daughters”. And if you don’t see them, maybe just wonder…why not?