Here is my theory–I picture the hearts of moms across the world being like a really dry forest, the kind that people warn you not to strike a match in.  They are dry because they’re insecure and aching.  They are exhausted and spent.  They are longing to hear that they’re doing a good job, and what’s more to feel like they’re doing a good job.  But because rest and truth and hope can be so hard won, these dry hearts are hazardous.  Flick a spark in their direction and the whole forest can go up in flames.

Before I ever had a single child, I knew I’d one day wage war with an enemy who sought their hearts and souls.  I anticipated battles ahead, knowing my children would test and defy me.  But I never anticipated the Mommy wars.  I think I watched part of an Oprah episode years ago on moms being too hard on other moms, but that was about it.  I didn’t give it a second thought.  Not until I joined the club.

Let me begin by saying, the Mommy Club is a beautiful place.  The moment you join, you find within your heart this unexpectedly raw capacity for love.  All at once, you are a protector, a nurturer, a defender of innocence, a story teller, an imagination factory, a kisser of boo-boos, and a cheerleader til the end of time.  Even on the scrape-me-off-the-floor-with-a-spatula days, you are being sanctified and learning to see God’s grace in a brand new light.  It is aspecial club, one I’m humbled and grateful to be part of.

But I’ll be honest, there’s one aspect of membership I don’t like to talk about.  It is the insecurity that bloomed inside of me somewhere along the journey.  I felt it the first time I didn’t know how to soothe my own baby.  The first time I couldn’t get her to eat her green bean goo.  The first time she wandered out of my sight in public.  I don’t know exactly when the quiet voice began to whisper, do you even know what your’e doing??  But I do know that initial thought was just a hop step and a jump away from this one: That mom sure looks likeshe knows what she’s doing.  And then there was the really quiet thought that always buried itself in a place I would never share with anyone: Maybe she’s a better mom than you.  

Here is my humble opinion—I think that thought is the deceptive heartbeat behind all the mommy wars.  I think deep down many of us are just a little bit afraid that someone else is doing a better job at this whole thing than we are.  We see all-natural-organic mom who tills her own grains in the backyard, and educational-crafty mom who’s 6 month old can speak in sentences, and just-stepped-out-of-a-magazine mom with super cute clothes and baby gap model babies…and we cannot help but notice all the ways we fall short.  So we resort to one of two measures, the first being imitation.

Maybe if I can just be like super-fit-and-sporty mom with16% body fat and color-coordinated Nike outfits…or ultra-organized-household mom, or uber-sweet-and-godly mom…  The problem is we quickly realize we cannot be all of them all the time.  The moment we pop on all-natural-organic mom’s hat, we bump into crafty mom whose kids have sculpted a miniature Parthenon over the weekend, and we realize our kids have watched 20 hours of television so we could make homemade Larabars from scratch.  And even if by some miracle we can get healthy mom jiving with educational mom, when we drop off our kids at preschool we’ll immediately notice that just-stepped-out-of-a-magazine mom isn’t sporting a crumpled T-shirt with craft glue in her hair.  (And don’t even get me started on what coupon mom might think if she saw how much we spent on groceries last week!)

Once we realize we can’t be all of them, we resort to option number two: judgment.  Of course, this is rarely blatant.  I don’t tell sporty mom I think she spends too much time at the gym, I tell myself sporty mom spends too much time at the gym.  I tell myself it’s okay my abs don’t look like hers because she’s probably not nearly as godly as I am.  I tell myself it’s okay I don’t look as put together as just-stepped-out-of-a-magazine mom because she probably spends too much money on clothes anyway.  On and on, I tell myself whatever I think I need to hear to stanch the fear that I don’t measure up.

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