When Dave, Carly, and I had dinner with some friends for Xmas, he was annoyed that I was completely and unabashedly jealous of the adorable daughter of two of our closest friends. After all, she — two months older than Carly — is communicating with both her parents and strangers at a level much higher than Carly.
(Before you say it, I’m well aware that all babies develop at different rates. I know this in my mind. Carly is also more advanced in other things — especially her independence. In my psyche, however, it’s a complete chaotic mess.)
My mother thought that maybe I got jealous of my friends’ kid because I didn’t want to admit that I truly do think my own child is the smartest, prettiest, strongest, nicest, and over-all highest achiever in the bunch. My mom thinks that once I saw a child acting “smarter” than mine, I became jealous.
My response was, “Of COURSE I did! Everyone does. They just don’t admit it.”
I was watching this little girl enjoying being the center of attention — talkative and babbly, singing songs, and following her parents’ directions (and as Carly was asleep, I couldn’t really look to my own beautiful, smart, sly, curious, stubborn, independent daughter for support) — and wondering, “Why can’t Carly do that yet? Is there something wrong with her? Should we be concerned?”
When the hostess saw through my nice-but-tinged-with-worry-and-envy comments, she noted to the group of moms & dads: “We’re all just jealous,” implying that since our babies — my daughter, her son — were sleeping, we were jealous that we couldn’t show off our wonderful children, too.
Yeah, that’s part of it. But I was also thinking, “How is their baby so much more advanced than ours? Is there something wrong with us? Is there something wrong with me? Am I a bad parent?”
Ah, now there’s the rub.
And that’s the part Dave doesn’t understand. There’s this heaviness assigned to the word “mother.” We’re thought of as the primary caregivers. Primary. Most important. First in rank. First to blame. So when I saw this toddler acting … well, perfect… I became jealous. And a bit freaked out, obviously.
What if I do a shitty job at being a mother? What if, as two of my former students — twin sisters — pointed out, she forgets how much I love her when she’s a teenager and we don’t get along. “How sad,” they agreed. What if she says that I’m not her “real mother” because I’m white (that and the fact that I didn’t actually give birth to her)? A good mother would know how to respond. What if I don’t have the answer? What if all my expectations for her — I call bullshit on anyone who says they don’t have them — fall apart?
What if she’s not perfect? What if she is?
Will I still be jealous?
