04/12/2025
NEW BLOG: SHE HAS SIX KIDS.
I went to a party last night at a lovely restaurant. I knew most of the people around the table, and my friend introduced me to a couple using her favourite party trick:
“This is Amanda… she has six kids.”
Honestly, you’d think she’d announced that I was a UFO crash site investigator by the surprise on his face. The woman smiled. The man practically choked on his falafel, staring me up and down like I’d just admitted to a murder.
Then came the predictable follow-up response, the one I’ve heard more times than I care to count:
“Six kids… with ONE man?”
As if that’s the plot twist that should shake the foundations of civilisation.
No one, at any point, would anyone ever ask man that.
A dad of six gets treated like a national treasure, as if he’s single-handedly repopulating the earth and deserves a medal for remembering their birthdays.
A mother of six? Suddenly she’s a suspect. People start squinting as they work out how many lovers she’s had. And if she looks human or worse, attractive, the interrogation level doubles. God forbid she looks well-rested; then she must be lying about something.
I’ve actually been stopped in airports multiple times and questioned like I’m running an international child-smuggling ring, simply because I’m travelling alone with my own children. That’s the starting point for how mothers are treated.
People love to be scandalised by the strangest, most illogical things. His follow-up line was equally predictable, delivered after he scanned me like he was evaluating fruit in a supermarket:
“You look good on it.”
As if my entire worth boils down to whether motherhood shows on my face. As if my appearance is the miracle here, not the fact that I am an award-winning author and international business owner and I still manage to show up polished.
None of that gets the gasps.
Just the number of kids and the assumption that somehow, somewhere, my morality and my sexual history are fair game for public commentary and judgement.
This is what women choke on every single day: the idea that our bodies, our choices, our past, our reproductive decisions, and even the state of our faces belong to public discussion. Men get celebrated for the bare minimum. Women get interrogated for the audacity of existing.
A man would never be asked this. A dad of six gets a standing ovation. A mum of six gets cross-examined. And here’s the part that really blows people’s minds: my children are intelligent, kind humans with a strong work ethic. They don’t smoke, drink, or take drugs. They’re emotionally balanced, grounded and respectful and not the feral stereotype people assume appears the moment a woman has more than two offspring. Because good parenting isn’t capped at one or two children. The idea that love, attention, or competence somehow expire after baby number two is just another myth people cling to because it makes their judgement easier.
Anyway back on topic....I always think: what exactly am I supposed to look like? Am I supposed to stroll in looking like chaos dressed me without seeing shower gel all week? Why is it shocking that a woman can raise children, build a career, move countries, hit the gym, run a household, fight legal battles and still look nice?
Women are expected to be everything and criticised no matter what we choose.
Too many kids, not enough kids.
Too ambitious, not ambitious enough.
Too much make up, not enough make up.
Every path comes with commentary.
A woman can be exceptional, but she’s still expected to be decorative. And if someone calls me beautiful, I roll my eyes.
It’s the bare minimum observation. It’s the most predictable, unimaginative compliment a woman can get and me and my equally good looking friends are not impressed by it.
Tell me you admire my drive.
Tell me you’re impressed by my resilience.
Tell me you can’t believe how much I’ve achieved.
I’m not here to meet anyone’s expectations, especially not the outdated ones.
I’m here to exceed my own.
