Here's what I hope is a dusty, totally passe concept: the supermom. You know, those women who juggle a million tasks before 8 a.m., then go for a 10 km jog, then strap their kids into hybrid SUV car seats, check them into day care and depart for an important, high-paying career in the finance sector. At night, they cuddle up with their equally successful husband on their Cassina sofa, sipping wine and discussing the high points of the day. That mode went out with strawberry frappuccinos, right?
Call me crazy, but the mere recounting of a supermom living her life in that awesome supermom way causes a panic attack whereupon I must collapse on my sagging, ancient Ikea sofa with a stiff drink. Supermoms. As Woody Allen once said: "I don't want to hear that word! Don't mention that while I'm in the building!"
The deeply regrettable thing about being a film critic is that once in a while, I come up against an entire movie about supermoms and must write about it. "I Don't Know How She Does it" is the title of this yay-for-supermoms tale, and at this point there's a voice in the back of my mind that says, "I really don't give a hoot how she does it." Most working mothers hardly have the time to wonder what supermoms are doing or how they're doing it, because it's all we could do to sludge from day to day without the megaton burden of doing it all and looking great too. Yes, sludge. That's a word.