The Cow

I already know we have less than nothing in common. Despite our children being the same age.

Her child is immaculate. Beautiful, pressed dress. Lovely pretty shoes (shoes!). Smooth, straight hair.

My child appears to be drooling. A lot. I know he can’t help his teeth coming through. But now? And is that… Mashed potato? In his eyebrow? He hasn’t eaten mashed potato today. Oh. Hmmm. Yesterday’s dinner. Sigh. And where is his left sock?

And if it wasn’t bad enough, the mother is immaculate too. Knee high brown boots, tanned bare legs, lovely cotton sun dress and smooth groomed hair. I hate her. How does she do that? I realise though that I’m not alone in this, thank god. Across the room, I can see a knackered mum looking at her in disgust too. This mum looks, well, tired and old – baggy eyes, unbrushed hair, shirt with (oh bless her) baby vomit on the shoulder, still wearing preggie jeans. Thank god, I’m not the only one I think and get up to get a wipe. Then I realise. That’s not another mum. That’s me. In a mirror. Unrecognisable me. Dishevelled, exhausted, old. How did that happen? And How come the tanned cow in the corner has got it so bloody together? I make a pact right then that I can’t, for my own sanity, ever talk to her. Yes, I know that makes me the cow. But that’s just the way it has to be. I can’t spend week in, week out at mums and tots group, going quietly mad with envy. Imagining how beautific her life is. How together she has it all. I will just have to accept that some women can do it better and with more style and less baby vomit. Eeeeeurgh.

The next week she walks in a pink velour track suit with some sort of reflective shiny writing on her bum. Karma is restored.

Still not talking to her though.