Perfect vs. Pathetic
When Two Worlds Collide

There are perfect moms and then there are those who try to be perfect. “Pathetics” is what we’ll call the second group. And I’m not being offensive—I’m simply calling myself pathetic. Anyway, these two groups are from opposite sides of the universe, whose planets should never, ever collide. Yet—as curious as galactic phenomena go—they do. And it’s always at the same place.

The gym.

You know who I’m talking about. Those moms whose legs you can actually see between? Whose arms know the jiggle only of be-jeweled bangles? And—if you’re lucky enough to park next to one in the parking lot—drive cars without one trace of a Happy Meal. They’re the moms we love to hate, yet strive to emulate.

One time at a yoga class, (because all Perfect Moms do yoga and I want to be like them), I laid down my mat next to a Perfect. Not because I was a glutton for punishment—I was simply observing. Perhaps I could glean some intelligence on Perfectness that I could share with my fellow Pathetics, I thought to myself. And I was struggling, really struggling next to her. (I should mention it was a “birthing” yoga class because I had opted for a vaginal birth with my second son after a C-section with my first.)

I was grunting and sweating through our “canal” poses while my Perfect neighbor breezed through hers, when the instructor said something about us being the “perfect” parents for our kids.

“Just as we are,” she cooed. “That’s how the universe works. You are given what you need in your baby, and your baby is given what he or she needs in you.”

“Right,” I thought to myself. Will my new baby really need a mom who cuts bangs in between missed Botox visits to hide her wrinkly forehead? Or someone who spends a fortune on running shoes that simulates walking on the beach instead of actually walking on the beach (which happens to be across from where she lives). Well, how about a mom who spends a fortune on retouching her holiday photos—whitens the teeth, twinkles the eyes—so her family appears perfect to all 250 recipients she rarely speaks to the rest of the year, let alone sees?

“Doubt my baby needs a mom like that,” I mumbled under my breath.

Naturally, Miss Perfect pretended not to hear. Or maybe Perfects couldn’t hear. Which would explain why their children never cry in public. What would be the point, really, if no one could hear them? Anyway, when the time came to push Baby #2 through my canal, the yoga training proved worthless, as I endured an emergency C-section for a second time. (But lucky for Perfect, her baby popped right out! And I should know, because we delivered at the same hospital, the same week.)

Our planets collided, yet again.

And again, and again, and again, as it turned out, at the pediatrician’s office, the grocery store and the post office. We never exchanged more than a nod or a smile during our run-ins, (out of fear, no doubt, of me polluting her planet), but when she found her way into my neighborhood park a few months ago, I panicked. Perhaps she was observing me as part of a Perfect Planet mission—like some “Operation-How-Not-To-Be-Pathetic” sort of thing.

So I kept a watchful eye on her from the swings, spy-like, through my over-grown bangs until she finally approached me. Just like that, after two years of sightings, Perfect waltzed right up to me and actually spoke.

“How do you do it?” she asked.

“Do what?” I asked back, my heart pounding.

“This—the kids, the career, the marriage,” she said, glaring at me through her Raybans. “Every time I see you, you’re like that perfect mom who never looks tired or fat.”

Had I been anywhere near my fourth cup of coffee of the day (which I had been forced to abandon due to my toddler’s tantrum earlier), I would have had the energy to tell her that I’m Pathetic and she’s Perfect and…

Wait, was she crying?

“It’s just so hard,” she sobbed. “I feel like I’m always a step behind.”

The truth? I wanted to scream at her. “One step behind, you say? Just one? Well, that’s miles ahead of me, sister.” But I didn’t. Instead, I put my arm around her and told her about my bangs, my shoes, my photo budget, the planets…everything.

“Wow, you really are pathetic,” she laughed.

“Perhaps,” I said. “But at least I’m not alone anymore.”