If motherhood were a competitive sport, the Olympic committee would be overrun with candidates…
I am not a competitive person. I get no pleasure from an activity when trying to do it faster or better or for longer than someone else. Example: swimming lessons. I loved (still do love) swimming, but when the teacher suggested to my mother that I enter competitions, I was out the other end of the pool in a time that would have made Michael Phelps question his achievements. I enjoy activities most when doing them for their own sake and without any form of comparison with others.
So how did I end up in the qualifying rounds for the summer sport of competitive mothering?
Because you are entered automatically from the moment you announce you’re pregnant – didn’t you know?
Every decision you make is judged by someone, and the worst culprits are other mothers clearly going for gold by comparing your pregnancy/delivery/baby/post-baby body with their own.
There’s the choice to breastfeed or not, whether you sleep-train, baby-led weaning, if and when you go back to work… And don’t even get me started on Montessori! I have seen powerful, successful women cower before others who casually drop into conversation that they have chosen to Montessori their kids “because we really wanted the best for her education, you know?”
Translation: you are lazy, uncaring and your child will end up in the gutter. Every choice you make becomes another mother’s food for smug comparison. At best, it’s exhausting; at worst it’s disempowering and distressing.
The flipside
However, for every mother sure that she’s standing higher on the podium than you are (and making sure you’re painfully aware of that fact), there’s another weeping inside from feelings of inadequacy at your wildly superior skills. Having a baby is unlike anything we’ve ever done before, and it can turn even the most confident of woman into a pile of self-doubt and anxiety. Faced with someone else’s certainty at deserving that coveted first-place medal, you can start to doubt even choices you know were right for you and your family.
The irony is that we are all at some point Mrs Smuggy McSmugface (“I make all my baby’s purées myself! I breastfed for longer than her! We go to more playgroups than they do!”). And we are all at some point that poor cringing creature convinced she’s not so much swimming as sinking (“She’s coping so much better than me… Her baby is crawling already… How did she lose the weight so fast?”).
So, what can we learn – and do differently?
I said before that I am not competitive. That’s not quite the truth: if I am to be precise I have to say that I am competitive with just one person – myself. I am always trying to do better today than I did yesterday: increase my knowledge, act with greater love, try harder. Applying the same logic to motherhood, I have found, is the only solution when faced with a Smugface or when resisting the urge to be one myself.
It’s hard to do, but the trick is to simply opt out of comparison with others and replace it with checking in with yourself.
Am I doing my best?
Did I make decisions that best served me and my family today?
Am I being kind to myself?
The answers will never be a unanimous, Welsh-male-voice-choir-style YES. But maybe you’ll realize that you did indeed play with your daughter and read her a story. Or you’ll admit that skipping playgroup this week and meeting a friend for lunch was simply necessary for your own sanity and will not cause lasting damage to your baby. Perhaps you’ll remember your son’s giggling fit as you made silly faces over breakfast and enjoy knowing you make him laugh.
And maybe, just maybe, you’ll find it in you to be a little less hard on yourself – and on other mothers. Now that would be a gold medal for everyone.
