Mummy's blog pants...

‘Mummy blogger’

It's often a term that often comes with a very negative connotation, and is synonymous with other derogatory terms such as 'attention seeker' and 'over sharer' - or at least it is to the haters. We're a waste of the seemly limited *sarcasm* space within the (absolutely limitless) world wide web. It's a term that makes me cringe when writing - and t's certainly not a term that I would voluntarily choose to describe myself, except, that's EXACTLY the category I fall into. ​

All you have to do is read through some of the comments left by readers on articles, in online parenting publications (many of which are written by my fellow bloggers), to see the endless hurl of insults, and hatred towards our kind sometimes.

But I see the other side - the side that proves that we're not a waste of a click on a Facebook thread or Instagram post, the side that proves that there is absolutely a place for the 'mummy blogging' crowd.

The endless messages of support, of love, and friendships formed, based on sharing our deepest darkest secrets (which let's face it, are really less deep and dark, and more hormonal and sleep deprived) to strangers on the internet. We share, we bond, we connect, we help each other through some of the most unimaginably difficult times. 

We're not the stain on the undergarments of the internet, or the annoying visible panty line on your little black dress, like some would have you believe. 

Here's the thing - finding the right blogger for you, is actually a lot like finding the perfect pair of undies. The ones that DON'T give you the VPL you despise.

Over time, you’ll try a lot of them on.

Half of them will just sit in your top drawer, you don’t know why everyone bangs on about them. You tried them on simply because everyone else did, but they’re a bad fit for you - cut in all the wrong places.

They pinch, and chafe, and you can’t bring yourself to love them. No matter how hard you try. You’ll see them there in that top drawer every time you open it - yet you'll never touch them. Until one day you finally decide to ditch them.

​And that’s ok, they’re not for you anyway.

The ones you do really love, you’ll have on high rotation. They’re the comfortable, dependable, honest and trustworthy pair. The ones that don’t ride straight up your ass the way some of the other pairs do. They’re your guilty pleasure, and if you’re lucky, they came in a multi pack - so you have a few to go around.

Some are there purely for the aesthetics, or a once in a million night out. They're ‘racey’ ones (like the burgundy lace g-string that your husband bought you from Victoria’s secret in the hopes that one day you might wear them for him. The only secret Victoria’s really keeping here, is that they’ll stay there in mint condition, unworn, for at least the foreseeable future ((however long that is))... but if we're truly being honest, it was no secret, you both knew this).

Others are there for their warm dependability - the granny knickers. The ones that feel like a nice warm hug from your Nanna. They're the perfect cup of tea and scone combo. Soothing, and good for the soul. 

My faves are the ones that lift you up, and hold you tight. They give you stability, and help to raise up every part of you. The ones that give you the support you need, without any hidden agenda. They really make you feel less alone in this world. They’re like a good pair of Spanx.

You might find that you've got a bit of everything, depending on your mood. It's not a one sized fits all, or a one pair for all of eternity situation here. There's room for love - all sorts of love. And here's the other thing - just because Sally down the street loves nothing more than to chuck on a high-rise lacey g-banger, and strut around like she owns the place, doesn’t mean that your well worn, comfy AF granny knickers from three years ago, aren’t the best things since the invention of the elasticised waist band.

Don't hate on the knickers.

And if after all that you still can’t find the right fit?

Just go commando, and leave the panty-hate at the door.