Read the label: I am No Yummy Mummy

The other day I got to thinking about mummy labels, wondering which group I fit into. Because, you know, I've got nothing but time on my hands and a head full of clouds. So I asked His Royal Highness.
'Am I a yummy mummy?'
'Hmm,' he said, scratching his head and squirming under my expectant gaze. And then he brightened. 'Well, you live in the right neighborhood.'
So that is a diplomatic no.

I'm not cool enough to be slummy mummy and I'm clearly no alpha mummy. So what's left for a mummy like me?

The answer fell in my lap rather unexpectedly. On Saturday afternoon, Scrumptious and I were tucking into our inordinately crunchy baguettes filled with French ham and Emmental. I chomped away while she peppered me with increasingly more difficult questions, 'Where does the rain come from?' The giant is weeping. 'How about the thunder?' He's moving the furniture. She looked skeptical and I felt ridiculously inadequate. I wracked my brain for information which used to be in there but had somehow magically vanished with the second placenta, when she said, 'You're a crummy mummy. Ha ha. It rhymes! Crummy Mummy.'

I felt my smile turn upside down and quiver ever so slightly at the corners. Oh no, I thought, this is it. The jig's up. My own 5-year-old sees through my carefully erected facade and she's absolutely right. I'm a lousy mummy. I can't even answer basic science questions (well I could, but I didn't really have my thinking cap on), I bribe her with sweets and I sometimes serve meat that is (gasp) neither organic nor free range. What am I doing here? I'm a fraud and an imposter. I'm a total failure.

'I'm sorry, Scrumptious. I guess I am a bad mummy.' I hung my head in shame.

'I didn't say bad mummy,' she said impatiently. 'I said crummy mummy. You have crumbs all down the front of your jumper. From the baguette!' She bellowed the last part so I would fully understand her meaning which is just as well, really.

So another mystery solved. I'm a Crummy Mummy. Pleased to meet ya.