There are days when I feel quite accomplished. I’m dressed in clean pants, my makeup is on point, and my hair is styled neatly. I even remember to brush my teeth properly, managing to coax some toothpaste into a froth before hastily rushing to prevent my child from chewing on laptop cords.
The diaper bag is prepped, my rolls are secured in a Bella Band (yes, I still wear one—feel free to judge), and my home is reasonably tidy, just enough to give me a little boost when I return to find the dishes done.
We’re ready for story time at the library.
Stepping out, I’m filled with confidence. I look and smell fresh—a solid win. My child is dressed impeccably, outshining me, which seems to be the current trend. I settle into the library circle beside another mom who appears to be in the same boat—no fuss, slightly tired, but pleased to have escaped the house without a mess. We share a weary yet joyful smile as our little ones size each other up. Her child, of course, is dressed better than she is, likely due to the new clothes that arrive every few months and the two guilt-free naps they get daily.
Together, we clap, sign, and roll through our half-hour of storytelling. Books are read, songs are sung, and I strike up a conversation with the mom next to me, feeling a sense of camaraderie. I’m content.
Then I spot her.
The Ideal Mother
She’s impeccably dressed in a crisp blouse and a dazzling WHITE skirt. We both pause, captivated by her graceful movements, as her fair-haired child mirrors her actions. Her hair is flawlessly styled—curled and poofed in a way that frames her face perfectly. Her child gazes at her with pure admiration while mine is busy exploring the wall outlets.
Seated beside her, an equally stunning group of friends, she radiates a glow of Ultra Motherhood. There’s not a hint of extra weight on her, making me wonder if she’s actually a nanny. But no, I know this isn’t the case. Her legs are toned and tanned, her smile dazzling, as every word she utters is met with nods of approval from the other mothers. I, on the other hand, am sporting jeans that serve to hide my pale legs, which resemble that of a ghost. The ring on her finger sparkles brightly, nearly blinding me from across the room.
A wave of jealousy washes over me. Suddenly, I feel inadequate—not just as a mother, but as a person. I suppress the urge to vomit, realizing I wouldn’t want to smell like that.
As we exit, she gently places her laughing child into a $1,500 stroller while mine is screaming and throwing herself back against me. I can’t help but admire the immaculate whiteness of her skirt. How did she manage to keep it spotless throughout story time? It wouldn’t even fit over my thigh—singular use for emphasis.
As we walk to our cars, I find myself trailing behind her, overhearing her chatter about a new BMW, an addition to their home for an au pair, and her husband finishing his residency at a local hospital. My mind drifts to the mundane—remembering we’re out of cat food and trying to identify the source of the odor wafting from the backseat of my car. I’m almost certain it’s a diaper, but I’m unsure where it is, or how long it’s been there.
With each step, my self-esteem dwindles. I feel more frumpy, overweight, and disgruntled about life. When I finally reach my car to load my child in, I start thinking about naptime. As I buckle her in, she looks up at me with wide eyes, then gives me a smile and pats my hand.
Suddenly, tears well up in my eyes as I realize how foolish I’ve been. My judgment was misplaced—I almost allowed myself to resent someone based solely on their external circumstances.
While it might be tempting to conclude that “she’s probably unhappy and drowning in debt,” that wouldn’t be fair. She may very well have a fortune and be a modern-day Mother Teresa.
The truth is, it’s not about her; it’s about my own self-acceptance as a mother, as a woman, as a human being. To my daughter, I am the perfect mother. If I fail to recognize that and embrace it, how can I instill that belief in her? How can I assure her that she is extraordinary and beautiful if I don’t feel that way myself?
I’d love to pass on the secret of wearing a white skirt all day as a mother, but that may be setting the bar a tad too high.
In the end, we’re all on our unique journeys in motherhood, and it’s crucial to appreciate our own paths, no matter how messy they may be.
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Summary:
This reflection explores the feelings of inadequacy that can arise in motherhood, especially when comparing oneself to seemingly perfect peers. It emphasizes the importance of self-acceptance and recognizing one’s own worth as a parent, encouraging readers to embrace their unique maternal journey.