Diary of a Cork mum: 'I don't want a new life...I just need to outsource some of it'

As September draws to a close,  I’ve realised I don’t want a new life. I’m actually quite attached to the one I’ve got. I’d just like to outsource some of it.

I’m not looking for a wellness retreat. I don’t want to drink a green smoothie at 6am while someone called Willow asks me to set an intention for the day. My intention is quite simple. I intend not to know where anybody’s football boots and especially mouthguards are.

I’d like a personal assistant. Actually, after giving it some thought, I’d like a small company.

Because I’ve realised that an alarming amount of my life consists of knowing things that nobody else in the house knows.

Where the football boots are. When training starts. Which child needs €5 tomorrow. Where the Irish book is. Whether the mouthguard has been found. Who needs a lift. Who is getting a lift. And why, despite spending €187 in the supermarket, everyone is standing in the kitchen saying: “There’s nothing to eat.”

I’d like to outsource all of it.

I’d start with the Sports Department. This would need to be staffed by at least three people and one highly-trained sniffer dog. My Sports Manager would locate football boots before they become “urgent”. They would identify the exact moment when a mouthguard is about to disappear. They would understand that a child saying, “I don’t know where my glove is,” does not mean they have looked for their glove. They would know that “It’s in my room somewhere” is not a location. And they would deal with the phone call that comes approximately nine minutes before training.“Mum, my glove has a hole in it.” “When did you notice?” “Today.” “Have you known for a while?” “Yes.” “Why didn’t you tell me?” “I forgot.” Excellent. That’s a Sports Department problem now.

Then there would be the School Department. Frankly, this would require an entire office. There would be a person in charge of books, another in charge of forms, and someone whose sole responsibility was monitoring school WhatsApp groups without allowing themselves to become emotionally involved.

Because school WhatsApp groups are not groups. They’re a psychological experiment. There are messages about trips, costumes, money, photographs, homework, fundraisers and reminders about things that were already reminded about yesterday. And then somebody asks: “Sorry, what time is it again?” It was in the original message. My School Administrator would deal with all of this. I’d receive one short daily briefing. “Marie, tomorrow they need €7, a blue T-shirt, a permission slip, and an Irish book.” “Excellent.” “Also, you’ve volunteered to make 24 cupcakes.” “No, I haven’t.” “Apparently you have.” “Who volunteered me?” “Karen.” “Remove Karen from the group.”

Then comes the Social Life Department. Playdates. Sleepovers. Birthday parties. Lifts. Collections. The WhatsApp messages. The changes to the WhatsApp messages. The child who says she’s going somewhere then casually informs you 14 minutes beforehand that she also needs to be collected from somewhere completely different. I don’t know when motherhood became a transport company, but apparently I’m the manager of operations. I’d like someone to answer: “Can she come over?” without consulting me. “Yes.” “No.” “Unfortunately, Marie is unavailable for all social commitments until further notice.” Perfect.

Then there’s the Household Department. I’d like a cleaner, obviously. But not just somebody who cleans. I want somebody who notices things. Someone who sees the dishwasher has finished and empties it without requiring a round of applause. Someone who looks at the laundry basket and thinks, I should probably do something about that, rather than waiting until every person in the house is wearing sports clothes that are technically still damp.

I’d also like a Laundry Manager. Their job would be to reunite socks with their original families. Because I refuse to believe socks simply disappear. I think they leave.

Then there’s Food and Beverage. I don’t necessarily want someone else to cook. I want someone else to answer: “What’s for dinner?” At this stage, I have answered that question enough times to qualify for an honorary degree in catering. I’d like to walk into the kitchen at 5.30pm and hear: “Dinner’s sorted.” And that would be the end of the conversation.

Then there is the Appointments Department. Dentist. Doctor. Hairdresser. Eye test. Car service. School meetings. Sports appointments. Someone else can book them, remember them, find the address, and tell me where I’m supposed to be.

Finally, I need a General Administration Manager. This person handles everything that doesn’t belong anywhere else. Returning parcels. Buying batteries. Finding the charger. Remembering birthdays. Buying cards. Finding sellotape. Locating the scissors. Working out why the printer isn’t printing. Basically, they’d run my life. I’d like the Platinum Package. This would include someone standing at the front door at 7.45am saying: “Has everybody got everything?” And when someone replies: “I can’t find my…” they simply say: “Already sorted.” Imagine.

I’d probably become a different person. I’d walk around the house holding a hot coffee. I’d sit down without immediately remembering something I was supposed to do. I might stare out a window. For pleasure. I might read a book without secretly making a mental list of things that need doing. I might even have an actual thought that isn’t: Did I put that form in?

Which brings me to the slightly alarming discovery I’ve made while designing my imaginary outsourcing company. If I outsource sports, school, social lives, food, laundry, cleaning, appointments, and general administration... there isn’t actually a huge amount left for me to do.

And perhaps that’s the point. Because somewhere along the way, motherhood became less about doing things and more about knowing things. Knowing who needs what. Knowing when. Knowing where. Knowing what has been forgotten. Knowing what needs to happen.. It’s the invisible stuff. The stuff nobody notices until it doesn’t get done. Maybe that’s what I’d really like to outsource. Not my life. Just the constant mental spreadsheet running quietly in the background.

So if anyone is thinking of starting Outsource It, I’m your first customer. I’ll take the Platinum Package. Sports. School. WhatsApp. Playdates. Laundry. Cleaning. Dinner. Appointments. Lost property. Everything.

And if there’s anything left for me to do, I’m sure someone will find me. I’ll be sitting somewhere quiet, drinking a hot coffee, pretending I don’t know where the football boots are. Because for once... I don’t.