Meet the Family

My public face is Supermammy.

My true identity is hidden away and doesn't emerge very often. Sometimes I'm not even sure who I am anymore - I'm "Mam" or "Mammy" or "Aaaaaaarrrrrgghh". That's me now. My role is to love, protect, care and provide for my two children (and husband and animals).

That's me at the top of the picture with the blonde hair and expression of permanent bewilderment. I recently joined Club 30. Most 29 year olds collapse in dramatic sobs and pleadings of "whyyyyy?!!!" but I decided to embrace my 30s wrinkles and all. I had a good time in my teens and twenties - making mistakes, finding my feet and trying to working out which path would lead to my fame and fortune. I moved out, went to university (sometimes), partied five nights a week with money I didn't have, worked in many a crappy job, travelled, spent more money I didn't have, hated a body I did have, laughed, fought and cried a lot until the winding slippery path of life led me to right here. I'm now a married mother of two, I work full-time in a job that I enjoy sometimes, I run our home, I manage our money, I plan for our future and I juggle a billion tasks, thoughts and plans a day until I collapse into bed at night and give my husband a friendly pat on the shoulder that says "not tonight love I'm shattered". I try to do everything and please everyone and spend most of the time feeling guilty that I haven't done enough. I can't switch off or the ten thousand balls that float around my head on a daily basis will crash to the floor and we'll all fall down. I haven't got a clue what I'm doing, I just rush around trying to do it all right. But being a Supermammy isn't about having all the answers - its about trying your best, feeling like you're never good enough and still rolling out of bed at 6am the following morning to give it another go. Being a Supermam is the hardest job I'll ever do. I'm hoping it'll be the best.

My husband - Superdad - otherwise known as Dad - is my toyboy. By four months. We met in 2004 at a lock-in when he was a semi-professional rugby player and I worked in a bar. If he had to describe himself he'd say that he looks like Vin Diesel ("or Bruce Willis" he just yelled from the kitchen). I won't disagree in case he points out that I don't actually look like Reese Witherspoon. Dad retired from semi-pro rugby a few years ago after earning several caps playing for his country. Now he works 24hour shifts with looked after children and occasionally plays for our local rugby team at the weekend. He's my hero and he has the ability to bring my true self out of hiding on occasion with his quirky sense of humour. And he'll call me "gay" for saying that. His hobbies include eating, drinking, entertaining, stripping, shopping, buying DVDs, watching DVDs, selling DVDs, generally being my third child and farting a lot. He's like the male version of me about ten years ago and he makes beautiful babies.

At the age of five, Owen is our oldest Gremlin (super cute and cuddly but can change into a destructive crazy demon if you feed him at the wrong time or get him wet). He's the artist of our family portrait. He has hair like Margaret Thatcher, teeth like toe separators and ears like the FA Cup. He could be the love child of Alan Carr except that he's blonde and doesn't wear glasses. He has the energy of a Duracell bunny and his mouth goes like a Pacman - he never stops talking - unless he's playing on his Nintendo DS and doing a fantastic impression of locked-in syndrome. He's actually a very handsome child with big blue eyes and an athletic little body. If only I could shave off his awful thick curly blonde hair but Dad won't let me. The one time I tried, he looked like he had alopecia and we had to do an emergency dash to the nearest barber. I think its cruel to let his grandparents twiddle his hair into ringlets until he resembles the Milky Bar kid. He won't stand a chance in school if he looks like a blonde Annie. Owen refuses to eat, has an acute case of selective hearing and has a super keen interest in swear words. And his willy.

Ava is our baby girl, she was ten months old and could roll like a Tasmanian Devil when I began writing these chapters - she's now hit the terrible twos and is doing it in style and with a vengeance. Dad says she has nineteen years left to go until she's allowed out of the house unsupervised. She has white blonde hair, a huge sweet and innocent smile and a scream that can shatter windows. She never learned to crawl, she would bring her feet up under her hips and slide on her face - like Mam at 6am when Ava starts banging her dummy on her bedroom wall ready to begin the day. I used to call her my cling-on because she wanted to be attached to me 24/7, I had to buy a sling so that I could retain the use of my arms. Now she'll go to anyone who'll feed her. She can spot a Wotsit ten miles away and will launch herself at you with arms outstretched if you rustle a packet or mention something edible. If you dare to refuse her grub she'll throw herself backwards like a gymnast in a crab and give an ear-splitting scream until you're grappling for anything to shove in her mouth to switch off the sound. The dog even has to hide his bones in case she slides over on her face and sinks her teeth into them. I'm predicting fat camp in about five years.

Almost last and usually least (poor thing) is my slightly hairier fourth child, Fudge, a cross between a Jack Russell and a Staffordshire Terrier. I'm not an animal lover and I never wanted a dog, I'm lazy, I hate walking and I don't enjoy picking up crap with a carrier bag. Dad spotted him as a puppy and begged me to have him: "I'll walk him, I'll feed him, I'll take him out running, I'll pay for all of his food and vets bills." That lasted about four days. But despite being completely untrained and the fact that he humps the stuffing out of any soft toy with a face, he's my first born and I'll protect him as much as I do my other three. I may have to protect him from Owen who asked if he could have a cat when Fudge dies. The newest member of our family is Gus the hamster who lives in Owen's bedroom in a three storey penthouse paid for by Superdad's parents Welsh Gransha and Welsh Nanny. Gus is fawny coloured with big balls and OCD - he likes to move his bed from the ground floor to the second floor one night - and back the next - kicking sawdust all over Owen's room in the process. He likes to bite pokey fingers and dangle from the roof of his cage by two little paws. He fits in well.

SO...that's the family. It definitely won't be getting any bigger for reasons of finance and sanity. I hope you enjoy reading about our "normal" hectic life. Perhaps there'll be some elements that you'll identify with and nod in understanding. Or perhaps you'll help to diagnosis our little family as absolutely raving nuts. Either way - this is us.