Proud Mother of the World’s Best Kids

me and my kids on a Mother's Day walk in the rain

What is it about motherhood that brings out the cattiness in women?  That need to compare, to one up, to trump in a imaginary contest of ‘Mom Eat Mom’.  What is it that makes us brag like the world has never seen children like our children. 

Motherhood seems to revert grown women to high school Mean Girls {accompanied by boobs with a little more sag and badonkadonks with a little less wag}. 

My little sister walked at eight months old.  Little, tiny walking thing.  Ask me how many times I’ve heard that story. 

And I have a good friend that potty trained her firstborn at an earlier age.  Although I’m not entirely certain how early since every time the tale’s retold the age seems to ironically decrease.  The kid was apparently sportin’ dry underwear before my kids were able to digest solid foods. 

It’s not just about our children’s successes either, but the method we used to get them here.  Ten points for a natural, epidural free, without induction delivery.  Seven points if you were weak and requested an anesthesiologist.  Two points if you were one of the unlucky ones that had to experience a c-section.  Sorry.  But it’s the name of the game.  Mom Eat Mom, remember. 

And in true competitive form we belittle other mothers like it boosts our own personal motherhood resume.  Did you hear that mother A sends her toddler to bed with juice? IN A BOTTLE!  And I can’t believe mother B lets her kids eat ice-cream before dinner. . . worst.mom.ever!  And, holy crap, do you know how much TV mother C lets her kids watch?  And what about the mom who opts for disposal diapers over cloth.  Or formula over nursing.  Or having a career over staying at home. 

“My kids four and she already reads” I overheard a mother proudly bragging at the library the other day.  I’ve heard the same conversation a million billion times before.  My kid only requests fruits and veggies for snacks.  My kid could say his ABCs at 12 months.  My kid can build a lego masterpiece with his eyes closed.  My kids don’t whine.  My kid. . .

I’m guilty.  I mean, welcome to my blog: a place where I shamelessly brag about my offspring and their uncanny ability to rock this universe.  Both my kids were potty trained at two, they don’t watch much TV and they amaze me with their remarkable drama talent when they act like dogs in the grocery store.  Three points for me.  Why yes, the points have true value and you better believe I’m keeping track.  Because I’m a mom, and that’s what mom’s do.