I have a confession to make: I love MomTok.

Or at least, what I think is called MomTok. Mums who become content creators. Domestic influencers. Women with ring lights, label makers, and the kind of kitchen storage systems that suggest either incredible organisation or a quiet cry for help.

Now, I’m 36, so I do not consume this content on TikTok like the youths. I receive it the way God intended for a Millennial: two to three weeks later, recycled onto Instagram Reels.

And while most of it is harmless enough, I’ve realised I’m especially drawn to three very specific MomTok subgenres.

All American, naturally.

1. The Luxury Lunch Mum

This is the mum with one very spoilt child who appears to be eating better than most adults with full-time jobs.

She’s packing school lunch, but not in the “here’s a sandwich and an apple” sense. No. She’s sending her child off with what looks like a plated degustation menu from a restaurant with a six-month waiting list.

A whole roast spatchcock.
Truffle mash.
Tiny roasted carrots with herbs.
A side sauce in a separate glass jar.
A little ceramic ramekin of berries.

All packed into one of those stainless steel compartment boxes like the kid’s on his way to Year 2 at Nobu.

And the comments are always divided between:

• “What an amazing mum”
• “This is child abuse because the food will be cold”
• “My child would only eat the bread roll”

I personally find it mesmerising. Not relatable. Not aspirational. Just… fascinating. Like watching a nature documentary about a species with too much time and access to black truffle paste.

2. The Mega Family Lunch Mum

Then there’s the mum with somewhere between 5 and 12 children.

There’s always at least one set of twins. Usually a child named Hudson. Another called something like Oakley or Blakely. Everyone is in matching neutrals. The kitchen is beige. The pantry could survive a minor natural disaster.

And yet, despite the sheer scale of the operation, this woman is calm. Serene, even.

At 5:12am she is packing seven lunches, frying twelve eggs, filling six water bottles, plaiting hair, wiping a bench, and softly smiling into the middle distance while a country worship song plays over the top.

And honestly? I find it soothing.

I do not want her life. I would not survive her life (my hips wouldn’t make it through childbirth, let alone 12). If I had to make lunch for eight children every morning I would simply pass away. But watching her slice fruit at industrial scale and line up little lunch containers in military formation? Deeply calming.

It scratches something in my brain. A fantasy of order. Of purpose. Of tiny ziplock bags full of pretzels.

3. The Culinary Crime Scene Mum

And now, my favourite.

The American mum cooking what can only be described as an abomination.

These videos are art. Horror, but art.

They always contain the same foundational pillars:

• onion powder
• garlic powder
• cream cheese
• plus at least three other cheeses scattered over the top for garnish, integrity be damned

And then comes the protein. Not fresh, obviously. Never fresh.
Frozen, pre-cooked meat only.

Chicken chunks.
Meatballs.
Sausages.
Sometimes shredded rotisserie chicken if she’s feeling artisanal.

Then she adds six jarred or canned ingredients with the confidence of a woman who has never once been told no.

Cream of something soup.
A can of corn.
Packet ranch seasoning.
Jarred alfredo sauce.
Frozen hash browns.
A block of cream cheese just slapped directly into the centre like a sacrificial offering.

You know what these meals never seem to include?
Vegetables. Salt. Pepper. Anything fresh. Anything green that isn’t decorative parsley sprinkled on top as a legal technicality.

They all go into the slow cooker or a casserole dish. Then there’s the final cheese avalanche. Always cheese. Mountains of it. A dairy-based act of aggression.

And every time, I sit there completely transfixed.

Not because it looks good. It does not.
Not because I want to make it. I do not.
But because I cannot understand how people are eating like this every day and then simply carrying on.

How?
When was the last time anyone in that household had a regular bowel movement?
Are they okay?
Is everyone just operating on vibes and antacids?

It blows my mind.

Why Do I Love It So Much?

I think part of the appeal is anthropological. It’s not just content. It’s a glimpse into another culture. One where a child gets sent to school with a roast bird, or ten siblings get fed with assembly-line precision, or dinner is built entirely from freezer aisle optimism and powdered seasoning.

Part of it is soothing. Part of it is absurd.
And part of it is the deep comfort of knowing that no matter how chaotic my own life feels, I am not currently softening cream cheese into a tray of frozen meatballs and calling it “crack chicken bake.”

That gives me peace.

So yes, I love MomTok. Or at least the version of it that trickles down to me through the Instagram Reels recycling plant.

I may not be the target demographic.
I may not have children.
I may not understand half of what these women are doing.

But I am watching.
Judging gently.
And, against all odds, deeply enjoying myself.

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If an American mum ever serves me dinner and it starts with cream cheese and ends with shredded cheddar, just know I’ll eat it politely… and then spend the rest of the night wondering what happened to roughage.