Some days, I wake up feeling on top of the world. I’m dressed in clean pants, my makeup is on point, and my hair is neatly styled. I even remember to brush my teeth properly, which is a victory in itself, especially when I have to dash after my little one who loves to chew on laptop cords. The diaper bag is stocked, the rolls are snugly held in a Bella Band (yes, I still wear one—judge me if you want), and the house is somewhat tidy, offering a little boost of pride when I return home.
I am ready. We are ready.
It’s story time at the library. As we head out, confidence radiates from me. I not only look clean; I smell fresh too—definitely a win. My child is dressed nicely, looking more put together than I do, which seems to be the norm lately.
I settle into the library’s circle next to another mom who resembles me—no frills, slightly worn out, but relieved to have escaped the house without any mishaps. We exchange weary yet joyful smiles while our children size each other up. Her child is also dressed to the nines, perhaps benefiting from the new outfits she gets every few months, coupled with the luxury of two guilt-free naps daily.
We clap, sign, and roll through half an hour filled with stories and songs. I’m chatting with the new mom beside me, feeling a sense of camaraderie and contentment.
And then I see her.
The Ideal Mom
Dressed impeccably in a crisp blouse and a WHITE skirt, she effortlessly performs the motions—her blonde child perched on her lap, also waving along with enthusiasm. Her hair is flawlessly styled, perfectly framing her face, while her little one gazes up at her in admiration as mine attempts to dive for the nearest electrical outlet.
Surrounded by equally polished friends, she radiates the essence of Ultra Motherhood. Not an ounce of fat on her, and I can’t help but wonder—maybe she’s a nanny? But deep down, I know that’s not the case. Her legs are toned and sun-kissed, her smile so bright it’s almost blinding. Every word she speaks is met with nods of approval from the other moms. I’m wearing jeans to hide my pale legs, which look like they belong to someone who just emerged from hibernation, and the ring on her finger sparkles from across the room.
Suddenly, I’m engulfed by jealousy. I feel inadequate—not just as a mother but as a person. The urge to retch slightly bubbles up, but I suppress it, because that would only add to the chaos.
As we step outside, she places her laughing child into a $1,500 stroller, while mine is in full meltdown mode, arching her back against me. I walk down the sidewalk, marveling at how she manages to keep that skirt pristine. I know I’d never make it out of the house in something like that—she made it to story time and back without a single speck of dirt, while I feel like I’m about to lose it. Not to mention that skirt wouldn’t even fit over my thigh, and yes, singular use of thigh is necessary here.
I trail behind her as we head to our cars. She chats effortlessly with her friends about a new luxury car, a home addition for an au pair, and her husband finishing his residency at the local hospital. Meanwhile, I’m mentally noting that we need cat food and trying to identify the source of a mysterious odor in the backseat of my car—pretty sure it’s a diaper, but I’m not exactly sure where. Or how long it’s been there.
With each step to my car, my insecurities escalate—I feel frumpy, overweight, and dissatisfied with my life. As I buckle my child into the car seat, she looks up at me with those big eyes, a smile spreading across her face, and she pats my hand.
Suddenly, tears fill my eyes as I realize how silly I have been. I feel foolish for my earlier judgments, almost resenting someone for their perceived status in life.
While it would be easy to conclude with a thought like, “She’s probably drowning in debt,” that wouldn’t be fair. She could very well have $50 million in the bank and be a real-life Mother Teresa in disguise.
The truth is, it’s not about her; it’s about me. I need to find security in who I am as a mother, a woman, a human being. To my daughter, I am the perfect mom. If I don’t recognize and embrace that, how can I expect her to see it in herself? How can I reassure her of her beauty and worth if I don’t feel it myself?
And while I’d love to pass down the secret of wearing a white skirt all day while being a mom, that might just be setting the bar a tad too high.
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In summary, this experience serves as a reminder that motherhood is not a competition. It’s about finding joy in our unique journeys and passing that confidence on to our children.