Parenting
The Ideal Mom
Updated: Dec. 17, 2015
Originally Published: Oct. 4, 2010
Today is one of those rare days when I actually feel good about myself. I’ve put on clean pants, managed to apply some makeup, and styled my hair in a neat updo. I even remember to brush my teeth and get the toothpaste to foam before I dash to rescue my little one, who has taken a liking to chewing on laptop cords.
The diaper bag is all set, the rolls nicely tucked into a Bella Band (yes, I still rock one—judge me if you must), and my house is in decent shape, just clean enough to give me that “Oh! I already did the dishes” boost when I return home.
I’m ready. We’re ready.
It’s story time at the library.
As we head out, I’m filled with confidence. I look and smell fresh—so that’s a win! My child is dressed cutely (which, let’s be honest, is usually better than my own outfit these days). I take my place in the library circle next to another mom who looks just like me—unfancy, slightly awake, and just grateful to have made it outside without a vomit incident. We exchange weary yet cheerful smiles while our kids size each other up. Her little one is also dressed better than she is; maybe it’s those new outfits that come every three months or the luxury of guilt-free naps.
We clap, sign, pat, and roll through the half-hour of storytelling. Books are shared, songs are sung. I’m chatting with the new mom beside me, and I feel a sense of happiness in having made a friend. I’m content with myself.
And then, I see her.
The Ideal Mom.
Dressed impeccably in a crisp blouse and a WHITE skirt—both of us pause to watch her as she performs the motions with grace, her golden-haired child perched in her lap, also enthusiastically participating. Her hair is perfectly styled, bouncing around her face, and her child gazes up at her with pure adoration while mine is headed for the wall outlet.
Flanked by her equally stunning friends, she radiates Ultra Motherhood. There’s not an ounce of fat on her—she might as well be a nanny, but I know that’s not the case. Her legs are toned and tanned, her smile dazzling, and every word she utters is met with nods from the other mothers. Meanwhile, I’m wearing jeans to cover the paleness of my legs—seriously, they resemble a ghost—while her diamond ring practically blinds me from across the room.
Suddenly, jealousy floods in. I feel small, frumpy, and discontented with my life. I almost gag a little but remember that would just add to my woes.
As we all head out, she effortlessly places her laughing child into a $1,500 stroller while mine screams and flops against me. We walk down the sidewalk, and I can’t help but admire how spotless that skirt remains. I wouldn’t have made it out of the house in that thing—she managed to go to story time and come back without a single spot. Also, that skirt wouldn’t even fit over my thigh. Singular.
I find myself trailing behind her as we reach our cars. She chats with her friends about a new BMW, the addition of an au pair to their home, and her husband finishing his residency at the local hospital. I recall that we’re out of cat food and need to locate the source of the mysterious smell emanating from my backseat—it’s probably a diaper, but I’m not sure where it is or how long it’s been there.
Feeling increasingly insecure, frumpy, and disgruntled, I finally arrive at my car to put my child in. I think about naptime and, as I buckle her in, she looks up at me with those big eyes. She smiles and then pats my hand.
Tears well up as I realize how foolish I’ve been. And judgmental—because I almost let envy consume me based solely on someone else’s circumstances.
And while it might be tempting to conclude with a snarky “She’s probably drowning in debt and miserable,” that wouldn’t be fair. She could very well have a fortune and be the next Mother Teresa.
The truth is, it’s not about her; it’s about me. I need to be secure in who I am—as a mother, a woman, and a human being. To my daughter, I am the perfect mother. But if I can’t recognize and accept that, she won’t either one day. How can I assure her that she is amazing, beautiful, and special if I don’t feel that way?
I’d also love to pass down the secret of rocking a white skirt all day while being a mom, but let’s be real—that’s raising the bar a bit high.
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