Fk you and your beige

Fuck your beige.

Your beige walls, beige couch, beige soul.

Your curated content and soft voiced scroll

of gentle routines and oat milk lattes,

while I’m elbow-deep in yesterday’s dishes

because fun fact

I don’t even have a fking dishwasher.

That’s right.

Every night it’s me vs Mount Crusty Cutlery,

scrubbing soggy Weet-Bix off plates

while my ADHD brain

starts seventeen tasks

and finishes none.

Meanwhile you’re posting

“Just reset your kitchen before bed ”

and I’m like

reset what?

My nervous system?

Your kitchen?

Colour coded, calm, Pinterest ready.

Mine?

Looks like a raccoon had a birthday party

and then cried.

Your kids wear linen neutrals

and eat salmon with their fingers.

Mine just licked a battery

and asked why the cat has nipples.

You whisper, “Let’s take a deep breath.”

I yell, “Get your pants ON, we’re already LATE.”

Your routine includes affirmations.

Mine includes coffee, chaos, and dry shampoo.

Your car is clean.

Mine’s a crime scene.

Banana peels, mystery crumbs,

and a smell I don’t have the emotional strength to investigate.

The windows don’t even roll down properly.

The tint’s bubbling like my sanity.

You have matching activewear,

a gym routine,

and a husband who watches the kids.

Mine asks, “What’s for dinner?”

while I hold a screaming child

and a cold cup of regret.

You meal prep.

I reheat.

You thrive.

I… attend.

You’ve got a skincare fridge.

I’ve got three face wipes and adult acne.

I’m trying to keep humans alive

with one working bra

and a schedule held together by hope and cancelled plans.

You holiday.

I hallucinate peace.

Your toddler says,

“I love you, Mummy.”

Mine says,

“Mum, your breath smells like poo,”

in front of strangers.

You post “that girl” content.

I am this woman.

Messy bun. Spaghetti on shirt.

One sock. No shame.

Tired, loud, overstimulated,

but still somehow

keeping the circus alive

with two hands

and zero goddamn appliances.

So no, I don’t envy you.

I just want honesty.

Reality.

A break.

A village.

And maybe a second hand dishwasher

that doesn’t leak.

Until then

I’ll rage clean,

mask at work,

and love my wild kids

with the kind of fierce, messy magic

that doesn’t photograph well

but saves lives daily.

So again

fuck your beige.

Fuck your perfection.

Fuck that I actually admire you.

I’ll take colour.

I’ll take crumbs.

But most of all we are mums.

Just trying to do our best.