Me, age 39
There’s this woman I know. Let’s call her “Julie.”
Julie’s daughter attends the same dance studio as my daughters. Every Tuesday afternoon while our girls are in class, we wait in the lobby. I try to read, but I always end up stealing furtive glances at her over the pages of my book. She is endlessly fascinating.
We are kind of like apples and oranges, Julie and me. In fact, I feel it’s necessary to draw a detailed comparison so you understand why I’m a little obsessed with her.
Julie: Julie’s daughter is waiting patiently for class to start, Julie having transported her to the studio with plenty of time to spare. Her leotard and tights are spotless, and her hair is wound in a perfect bun.
Me: My kids and I race into the studio approximately 30 seconds before class begins. During our ride in the car, Caroline has somehow gotten a rip in her tights; because she has stuck her fingers in said rip, the rip is now a yawning hole across her thigh. Jane’s hair, which was pulled back in a smooth pony tail, has come half-undone and is hanging lankly in her eyes. I’m being objective when I observe that my daughters look like charity cases.
Julie: After her daughter heads into class, Julie sits contentedly with her cherubic infant son at her breast. When he’s not smiling at the other smitten moms in the lobby, he nurses without fussing. Julie beams at him, a maternal glow on her face.
Me: After my daughters head into class, the first thing I do is gather their coats and shoes and bags, which, because we’ve been in such a state of haste, are scattered around the lobby. Next, I equip my son with dinosaur books, Power Rangers stickers, and some crayons to keep him occupied. Then, I take out my book to read. But wait – Owen has just wandered over to the retail area of the dance studio. He is taking leotards off the rack and pulling them down over his head and face in the attempt to look like a masked superhero. I deal with the situation straightaway and can’t imagine how I will make it through the next 55 minutes.
Julie: When class is over, Julie and her sweet daughter scoop up the baby and their belongings and leave the studio without issue. She heads home to her five other kids (yes, this woman is the mother of seven!), where I suspect she whips up an enormous, beautifully presented, nutritionally well-balanced meal.
Me: Only in a perfect world could we scoop up our belongings and leave the studio without issue. Owen has spilled his entire box of crayons and is pissed because half of them are now broken. Caroline is starving and needs something to eat right this very moment. Jane has lost one of her ballet shoes. Trying my best to meet and manage all their needs, I literally have sweat trickling from my brow. Get me the hell out of here.
***
I’m out with some good friends for drinks. Over my glass of wine, I tell Tonya how inadequate I feel compared to Julie.
“She looks exactly like the Madonna – and by the Madonna I don’t mean the singer, I mean the Virgin Mary,” I lament. “I’m not kidding when I say that a halo radiates from her head. She’s got this shine all around her. She never loses her patience.”
Tonya thinks some of Julie’s extreme self-composure is a façade. “I’m sure she loses her patience, just maybe not in public,” she points out.
“Well, then, I wonder what she thinks of me, because I am someone who regularly loses her patience in public.”
“I think you’re being too hard on yourself,” Tonya says. “You embrace the full spectrum of human emotion, and that’s good for your kids to see. In fact, I bet that Julie looks at you and wishes she had some of your...” (she chews her lip, carefully considering the right words to use) “…energy and enthusiasm!”
“Really? You think she wishes she had some of my energy and enthusiasm?” For some reason, the idea pleases me immensely.
“Well, maybe not,” Tonya admits. “But I’m sure there are moms out there who do.”
She may or may not be correct, my dear friend Tonya. I take a slug of wine and tell myself that, at the very least, I am a well-rounded mom. After all, it’s a weeknight and I’m out drinking with people I love. Julie, I can assure you, is not.
Being a non-Madonna mother does have its perks.
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