Yesterday, I met this friend, in the middle of a rain storm, for lunch. She had just come from dropping treats off for a Halloween party at her son's school. She talked excitedly as she told me about the delicious themed snacks she had made for her son and his classmates: witches' brooms and hats. This involved small Reese's cups upside down with pretzel sticks poked down into them (brooms); and turned over Keebler Fudge Shoppe Cookies with Hershey kisses on top (hats). When she described making these, as well as a nutritious alternative--banana ghosts--I stared at her in horror.
"I feel so betrayed," I stammered.
"Oh, please," she swatted a hand in the air. "It took less than 20 minutes."
"Well, did you at least make the other mothers feel badly?"
"Affirmative."
For my friend to have come up with creative Halloween candies and deliver them to her son's school on a beautiful platter, with her hair brushed, makeup flawless and wearing a stylish outfit, well, it flew in the face of everything she and I have bonded over since becoming parents. But if doing so enabled her to intimidate another mother, her disloyalty to me could be forgiven.
To delight in the thought of another mother feeling inferior is completely counter to everything I stand for. That being said, sometimes feeling like the winning mom, even if only for a day, is worth the pain it might cause others.
Mothers come in all kinds, and they all share the same secret: they are intimidated by another mother. Even the mother who posts the most beautiful pictures of the rosemary chicken, that she raised in her backyard and then roasted in a chiminea she hand-threw and fired while the kids napped, is intimidated by the working mother who just got the new corner office. The mother in the corner office is intimidated by the woman who talks constantly about "baby wearing" and the baby wearing mother is intimidated by the mother who always seems to get a shower.
Some mothers are natural care-takers, or happy home-makers, or inexplicable bakers. Some mothers are power executives with important jobs. Some mothers handle motherhood with ease. Some mothers handle it with wine. But all of these mothers struggle with something. Making treats for school. Or finding the perfect Halloween costumes. Or work-life balance. Or stress levels.
That's the way the playing field is leveled. Every mother has her strengths and every mother has her weaknesses. But because mothers don't like to be honest about their weaknesses (never Pinterest a flaw, never Facebook a fumble), it's easy to assume they don't have any.
I know I'm a good mother. But I'm still intimidated by most every woman I know who is a mother. Those who were able to breastfeed. Those who make their own laundry soap. Those who don't ever seem overwhelmed. Those who dress well. Those who don't look like they've ever housed a small human inside their body. Those who have clean cars. Those who actually have both hydrogen peroxide and rubbing alcohol stocked in their homes at all times.
But instead of assuming all those mothers have weaknesses, I instead focus on the times in my life in which I feel the most strength: my work.
Because I'm typically the youngest person in the room when I'm with my family, my friends or my husband, I find the classroom to be the one area of my life where I almost feel mature and wise. When I step into the classroom I feel myself overcome with confidence and energy. Not that this is necessarily backed by anything--lecterns just empower me--but there is a sense of accomplishment when my young students ask me what my husband is like, how hard graduate school is, or what it's like to be a mother. (And hey, they sometimes ask me stuff about the course material too, but first things first).
I enjoy giving lectures and answering questions and engaging with a group of young people who have their biggest life decisions ahead of them. And I really love that sometimes they seek me out for advice. I suppose I appreciate the feeling of being looked up to, a feeling even my fiercely independent two-year-old is sometimes uninterested in providing me.
This past week, after filling my students full of fun sized candy in celebration of Halloween, one student (early 30s, married) asked if she could stay after class and talk with me. After class was dismissed, we closed the door and sat down to chat. She revealed that earlier that morning she had taken a pregnancy test and it was positive. A wide smile spread across her face. We squealed and hugged (totally typical behavior between a college professor and her students) and compared due dates and pregnancy symptoms. After the excitement calmed down I realized that she was only sharing with me for the sake of sharing. She wasn't seeking any advice from me whatsoever.
But like all good mothers, I still felt the need to give it.
"Now, let's talk graduation," I said sternly. "That needs to be a priority."
"Well, I have one semester left," she said. "I'll graduate in May. The baby isn't due until July."
"And job hunting?" I pressed.
"Well, I own my own business, so that's taken care of."
"Ok. But you need to schedule ample time off. And you will return to work, right? Do you want to borrow my copy of Lean In?"
"I borrowed your copy last semester. I think I'm set."
"Oh, okay," I said, convinced she had her head on right. "Well, when is your first ultrasound?"
"Oh, Dr. Morgan...," she lowered her voice and furrowed her brow. "I would never subject my unborn baby to the harmful effects of an ultrasound."
I left class with my mind racing. The car ride home I thought back to every ultrasound I had with my daughter. How I loved seeing her dance and kick and squirm around on the large screen projected in the tiny, dark room. How I took the printed pictures the doctor gave me and taped them up in my office and on the refrigerator and bathroom mirror so I could look at her all the time, convinced she was happy and safe and healthy. And never once, not once, did I question whether or not an ultrasound was safe for my unborn baby.
When I got home I did what all confident mothers do. I Googled myself into a BabyCenter.com coma. I searched for hours on extremely reliable medical sites, and hundreds of blogs started by organic mothers who birthed in the woods. I scoured baby books I found in the back of our garage. Then I texted my father, who uses an ultrasound machine on a daily basis. Granted his experience performing ultrasounds is on thousand-pound mammals compressed in a hydraulic chute, but he was able to finally calm me down by affirming that he's never seen a link between ultrasound exposure and calves born with any of the millions of scary possibilities I'd read on crunchymomknowsall.com.
And while that may not be the most scientific conclusion, and perhaps there really are some concerns with ultrasound technology, I felt my father had restored my confidence as a mother. Even if only for a day.
Toward the end of our lunch my friend asked me what my child would be wearing for Halloween. We discussed our paths for Trick-or-Treating. We strategized a plan to steal half of our children's loot. And as we left, standing under umbrellas in the pouring rain, I caught a glimpse of her boots. When I complimented them she started laughing. She explained that they were cheap rain boots from Walmart and that just today, while dropping off her brilliant treats to the school party, she realized all the other mothers were wearing very high-end and fashionable Wellies. She was contemplating leaving our lunch date to try and find a similar pair to avoid embarrassment on the next rainy day.
Because just like Halloween, in which you get a chance to be someone else, being the winning mom has the same fatal flaw:
It's only for a day.
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