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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!”

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