The Mom Facade

As I stood outside Madeline's classroom door at 9:00 AM yesterday, watching all the four and five year olds line up next to the wall before filing inside, I glanced up and down the row of moms. Some were toting or pushing babies, some were carrying coffee, most were wearing a different set of clothes than the morning before, and all were trying to smile reassuringly while scolding, straightening, encouraging, pushing. The noise level was high, to match the energetic enthusiasm of the younger group.

With our Mom-Facades firmly in place, we cheerily waved goodbye to our little ones, while trying to calm our racing hearts. The battleground compromises we've all made just to get ourselves and our kids to school on time (every day) are secrets we will carry to our graves. Secrets of personal hygiene neglected, cold breakfasts in the car, voices raised, mismatched socks, missing backpacks, dirt swept out of sight, coffee and hats covering up unbrushed teeth and unwashed hair. But upon arrival at the school yard, we smile, chat, breathe, pretend that we are Mrs. Brady and our happy children are always that way. Our secrets may be similar, but are intensely personal, and we guard them carefully.

Imagine! Giving a child a cereal bar on the way to school! Well, I never! Does anyone brush that girl's hair? Who would let their child pick out clashing clothes and leave the house?

Not that anyone is saying any of those things, or even thinking them. But, we pretend we raise our own families that way; pretend that our mornings are smooth; convince ourselves that theirs' must be. After all, we all swore we wouldn't make those kinds of compromises when it was our turn to raise children.

Each of us tries to find one personal item on which we won't compromise in the heat of the rush. One mom wears gold flats every day. One shares baked goods with other moms. One always has a great necklace on. (I'm all about the shoes, too.)

But, oh, the compromises we make for the greater good of a timely arrival at school! Interrupting my reverie, the mom next to me leaned over and said (in a voice that could not be described as complimentary, but more as a bit miffed), "Well, you look fresh."

Fresh. The mom ideal; the one we swore that we would never sink to. It has been verbalized, finally.

Stifling my own secrets and a smile, I turned to leave, heading home to some breakfast and a shower.