I’m a mom.

A pretty good one, at that. My daughter dresses like a diva, most of the time her face is clean, she says please and thank you, and doesn’t fall to the ground in super tantrums in the middle of Target.

But, for some people this isn’t enough. Now, I am not talking about the actual children and how smart, talented, beautiful they are…. I am talking about the actual task of moming.

When I first started attending play groups and hanging with other preschool-having women, I’ll admit I got wrapped up in the game. Whose kid will have the healthiest snack, which kid has the most educational toys, who makes the best halloween costume…

You don’t believe me that these contests exist? Let me tell you a little about gingham checked picnic basket mom. I should preface what I am about to say by telling those of you that own a gingham lined picnic basket to stop reading here. Hell, you should probably stop reading my blog all together–because you and I can never be friends.

Damn, I kind of want that picnic basket.

But, I digress. I show up to the fountains with my kid, some water shoes, and she’s wearing an actual swimsuit. I, of course, forgot a towel, and had to dry her off with napkins from the nearby Mexican restaurant, but whatever. My kid’s making friends, running through the water and generally having a great time…

… then she shows up…

You know her… she has on freshly ironed khaki capris (I don’t even know where my iron is), a white button up shirt (WTF I haven’t bought anything white since I got boobs in the sixth grade and they turned into my own personal food shelf) and sporty canvas tennis shoes (Get some flip flops bitch. This is Texas and it’s 119 degrees out here).

Ugh, I instantly hate this woman, but here’s the thing–in the competitive world of mommyhood you have to love her. It’s the rulez.

So, I smile and watch her pull out home made granola (In my mind, though she just opened up some Quaker Granola bars and broke them up into her little snack packs) from her picnic basket. Her children munch on their fancy snack, and I offer my kid some of my frappuccino. (What? It didn’t have an caffeine in it.)

Then she whips out homemade bubble wands complete with cookie trays and organic bubble solution. (She told us it was organic. I am not even sure what that means, but she made a big thing out of it.)

That’s the very second I realized that I was out. I can’t compete with that, and more to the point–I just won’t. I am just going to be the best damn mom I can be, and to hell with that.