I think of myself as self-confident--assertive, even. That is, until another mom passes judgment on me. Then I crumble like a wet cookie.
At least that's what happened yesterday. Two of the neighborhood kids show up (uninvited, but welcome nonetheless) to play with my two girls. My youngest, especially, is thrilled to be included; there are no kids her age on this street. The four--my two, my neighbor's child and the fourth little girl, who is her cousin--charge outside. "Let's play cops and robbers!" one says. I turn my back to put the broom away and suddenly hear sobs and screaming. The neighbor kid rushes in the door. "Alex got her finger slammed in the car door!" she tells me, referring to her cousin. I rush outside and there's Alex, sobbing and shaken, holding her pinkie. It turns out my 5 year old had elected to break the rule against playing in the car, my husband had neglected to lock the car, and--well, you figure out the rest.
The finger was broken. Alex (who doesn't live on this street, but who is in my older daughter's class at school) spent the evening in the ER with her mom, and showed up at school today with her pinkie in a cast. "It's okay," she assured my older daughter. My youngest sobbed for half an hour after the accident; I have talked to her and she understands the gravity of what happened. I'm fairly sure she will not break that rule again.
But my neighbor/mom--who I actually like for her unconventional and artistic ways--is livid. I call her up to check on things, ask her to convey to Alex's mother my offer to pay medical bills. I do all the things I'm supposed to do, and yet her icy tone does not soften. I have a feeling it will be a while before we have any more playdates. Which is worse than a shame, because there are so few kids around here for mine to play with.
And the subtext is this: my neighbor home-schools. I work (albeit from home). I know, without asking her, that in her opinion I do not spend nearly enough time with my kids. If it were her, she would do it differently. If my kids were her kids, I'm quite sure she thinks, they would be better behaved. And perhaps this is true: her kids are very well behaved, a pleasure to be around. My kids, on the other hand, are loud, boisterous, frequently high strung--in short, a handful (just like I was as a kid). My oldest has hit quite a few bumps on the road to developing her social skills. They are who they are. I like her kids. I passionately adore my own and would not change one molecule about them.
So why is it I feel so inadequate and incompetent? How is it I can imagine her criticisms so vividly?
This is one habit depression breeds: you internalize everything. It's always about YOU. I need a pep talk. So here it is: Get a backbone, Tracy. If she's mad, let her be mad. Am I a good mom? Hell, yes. Do I need to worry about whether I fit her measurement of what a "good mom" should be? Hell, no.