Despite the title, my article is not a step by step guide on how to dress like my fluttering subject nor is it a reference piece on increasing productivity - smile, take large gulps of fresh air and flush your smart phone down the toilet. Being a butterfly is about spreading your wings in a chaotic world, that more often than not, creates our path without consent. Insert a Hilary Clinton quote here.
A few weeks back I hit a wall. A wall that deterred me from scribbling off all points on my to do list. Up until that six foot tall wall I was relatively good at conquering my personal and work errands. The hurdles leading to my monstrous list day after day began to drive me bonkers. How can I not be one of those females on the London underground who appears magazine ready and smoothie in hand with a digital organiser? Soon reverse psychology replaced my loss of marbles and I told myself that if I absolutely won't achieve the intricate 'to dos' then don't write them on your list.
Without ranting like a feminist or downgrading males - for not cleaning dishes with the same efficiency we do - it seems women attempt to wear more hats then men while juggling to perfect a family, career and ambitious to do list. The thought of mastering all three is an exhausting one. One that women will nod to with an agreeable fervour. There are men who work mighty hard and I certainly am blessed with a male who could challenge Rocky to a run along the beach, but the nitty-gritty of my female butterfly argument is women like to take on more than they can chew without forgiving themselves for not conquering all in 24 hours. Insert a feminist Meryl Streep fist punch here.
This year for the first time I am putting on the hat of new Mother. To say I am not daunted by the prospect is ludicrous as I am sure every Mother gracing the planet feels the same weight (physically and mentally) of welcoming a new bundle of joy. My mindset has radially started to change, as have my priorities. I now respect women who take longer to pack their groceries at the supermarket while tending to a whimpering tot, digging for their purse and dropping car keys. I now read the light and breezy magazine segments on 'hot working mama's' and I now attack my to do list with leniency.
My expecting news has fuelled a deep acknowledgement of the strong, independent females I was raised around. I reminisce over these women who showered me with confidence and love in order to transform me from caterpillar to flamboyant butterfly. I wish to pass on the same assurances to my bundle of joy. On that note I would like to declare that it's okay to be the women who looks a tad dishevelled on the London underground, at the supermarket and school gate. In fumbling moments of disappear our natural female instinct will master all of the tasks needing tended to. I like to believe the magazine working mama is a myth. An exaggerated example of a women who has endless time, resources and money at her disposable to attend weekly Bikram yoga classes, etc. I will never be the covergirl mama like Beyonce. So, I am going to stop trying and urge you to let that ship sail along with me.