Parenting is not a competitive sport

I have a friend who makes every mom I know, myself included, look like a slacker. She has five children under the age of 12. She’s always dressed to the nines as if she walked right out of Ann Taylor. She got her MBA last year when her youngest was not yet two. This year she successfully ran for City Council. She’s also gorgeous, smart and funny. Oh, and her size two jeans are a little loose right now so she’s been hitting the drive through at In ‘N Out to see if she can pack on a few pounds. Just being around her should make me feel like staying in bed. But strangely, it has the opposite affect. I find myself energized, inspired and motivated in her company. It’s not that I want to be her or even be like her. It’s just that her competence seems catching.

I spent much of young life competing with other women. Competing for boys and later for men. Vying for attention from professors and bosses. Angling for position, especially in those dangerous Bermuda Triangles otherwise known as three-way female friendships. You know the drill: two little girls can be the best of friends but add a third to the mix and somebody’s going to get her feelings hurt. I’m sure that’s why Carrie had Charlotte, Miranda and Samantha in her posse; the odds of the whole group turning on her diminished significantly with a fourth wheel.

Thankfully, sometime in my mid forties I seemed to turn an emotional corner and checked that competitive gene at the door, casting it off like a wardrobe pick from Forever 21 that just didn’t fit who I was any longer. I don’t want to one-up other women. I want to celebrate their accomplishments and delight in their successes. But to be honest, I don’t always feel sincerely excited when they brag on their kids.

I hate those bumper stickers that shout out how your kid is an honor student at yada yada elementary school. It always begs the question, “Who gives a you-know-what?” It’s like those holiday letters that shamelessly boast how little Amanda just won the Pulitzer Prize, and Sammy, who is 11, was just accepted to Harvard. While I take any overt bragging with a grain of salt, there’s still something inside me that knots up when I hear parents gush openly about their children’s accomplishments. There’s an element of throwing down the gauntlet involved; as a mother, you’re chomping at the bit to shout “Oh yeah! Well let me tell you about MY kids.” But honestly, you don’t want to go there. Plus, if your kids are anything like mine, amazing in my adoring eyes but on the whole, pretty average, what are you going to say? “Michael got a B- on his book report – which was great because I only helped him with about 90% of it.” Or “Abby finished her science project at 10:30 the night before it was due. So proud.”

My son was a late talker. Looking back he was perfectly normal. But as a first time mom I remember feeling panicked about his development, especially when we’d go to the park and other mom’s would begin the “So, what is your baby doing now” discussions. Truth is, so much of how your children develop and turn out has little to do with you. But even as I said that I know you don’t believe it. Deep down, you think like me that if you just read to them more, cut off the cable, shop organic, recycle, maybe then you would feel proud – not of them but of yourself.

My close friends and I often swap stories from the frontlines of parenting. It’s that self effacing kind of talk that makes everybody relax and feel better. If my girlfriend’s kid is having trouble in school, it evens the playing field and allows me to share what I’m losing sleep over these days. It also provides a platform of trust so that when we go on to share our children’s successes, there’s a “we’re in this together” camaraderie that makes it easy to be happy for one another.

I’m having lunch with my size-two, city council member, MBA-holding, mother-of-five friend this week. I’ll dress up; partly because I know she will. I’ll also anticipate the easy laughter, the “if she can do it I can do it” feeling that comes from being around someone who is living to make a difference. Then I’ll pick up my kids from school, help my son with his math homework and read Junie B. Jones with my daughter, and remind myself that I am making a difference too.