To the moms who give their kids bento boxes from the Pottery Barn and fill them with things like dried kale and edamame beans instead of Cheerios and chips:
You make me feel inadequate.
Just today, I let my two-year-old have a popsicle for breakfast (sure, he ate some egg and cheese first, but still: You’d never do that). Over the weekend, I bribed him with M&Ms so he’d sit still for a family photo shoot. And, five nights out of seven I resort to peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, just so he’ll eat something.
While you’re out strolling with your double Bob strollers, always looking all put together with your tight yoga pants and your perfectly-toned butts, your hair somehow washed and your makeup on, I’m a mess. On most days I’m not even wearing matching socks, that’s how NOT put together I am.
You are the ones who can gracefully and discreetly breastfeed your newborns while simultaneously traipsing after your older kids on the soccer field. My older kid almost ran away during a soccer class, and when I nurse on-the-go, everyone sees my boobs.
You somehow find time for Pilates, and you never seem overstressed or tired, even if you are. I am always tired, and can’t even find time for the home exercise bike I bought when I realized I have a post-pregnancy muffin top.
Your kids don’t watch TV or have any toys made of plastic or in China. My kid’s favorite toy is his iPad, and I not only buy him Happy Meals, but I let him play with the Happy Meal toys even though they’re probably teeming with BPA and phthalates and all those other ingredients you probably avoid.
You, perfect moms, make me feel like a not-so-perfect mom. Do me a favor, please: Buy your kids some french fries. Let them wear a shirt that doesn’t match their pants. Gain a few pounds. Something. You’re depressing me.
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