Here’s To You, Mom Crush

I have a crush.

But I don’t want to date her, I want to be her.

(Is that still called a crush?)

We take our toddlers to the same daycare, and our paths often cross first thing in the morning. “Hi,” I say, tugging at clothes that still don’t really fit my new body. I’m rushing because, as usual, I’m late, and I’m struggling to carry my purse, the baby, and her lunchbox. I smell like spoiled milk.

“Morning!” she says, looking like a J.Crew model, holding her daughter’s hand as they mosey across the parking lot. They stop to talk about the cars, the clouds, the trees. She smells like Kate Middleton (I assume.)

Let’s call her Kate.

It’s been over a year, and I still feel like I haven’t gotten my act together. I can’t figure out how to dress myself, how to effectively carry everything, and how to get out of my house on time—much less how to raise an upstanding human being.

Kate, on the other hand, is killing this mom thing—at least, the four minutes prior to dropping her daughter off, and the four minutes after picking her up. I know enough to know that Kate, too, probably feels like a more disheveled version of herself. The same way someone’s Instagram doesn’t represent their whole life, neither does the short time that this woman and I cross paths. 

But still. How am I so much sweatier than she is? 

One day, I was getting out of my car at the daycare center. Kate’s husband was carrying their daughter out to the car, and the toddler’s eyes lit up when she spotted me. Then the magic word came out of her mouth.

“MAMA!” 

The ultimate compliment. She thought I was Kate? 

I’m embarrassed to admit that I instantly felt better about myself, despite the fact that my own toddler literally calls anything with hair “mama.” The photo on the last page of the book Happy features the most diverse group of humans ever assembled, and my daughter carefully points to each and every one of them and declares that they are “dad.” 

But for that moment, my clothes fit. I was the mom at daycare pickup that everyone admired. And, perhaps most importantly, I smelled like the Duchess of Cambridge.