Moms on Moms

Guest Post by Dana @ Are My Pants Too Loud

Moms are tough on moms and as much as I would like to tell you that I am the one sheep in wolves clothing, I would be lying. I am one of those moms and I blame other moms for making me this way. I am fairly certain that when you get pregnant you put on something similar to beer goggles; for lack of a better metaphor, we will call it milky bra syndrome. This sounds better than “mommy brain,” which I fucking hate. 

Milky bra syndrome is the parenting honeymoon phase between announcing your pregnancy and the blissful sleeping, eating, pooping and sometimes crying 6 month old. After 6 months, they move and need more attention and YOU need more attention. This is when other moms get involved. The milky bra comes off and is replaced by some uncomfortable tight jeans that you stuffed yourself into and covered the unzippable zipper with a long blouse/sweater/dress number. Meeting other moms of other kids who also need more stuff, namely people, is much like high school. You are gauging yourself amongst them and they are gauging themselves amongst you. 

Thankfully you have successfully hidden your muffin top behind that long blouse/sweater/dress number so you are at least one point ahead of that poor mom who cannot get herself out of her leggings. You return from the play date feeling exhausted but better than legging lady but not quite as good as not so tight jean mom with perfect skin. You know, the bitch who we really want to be mom friends with; hopefully she will pick me over legging gal and we can have park dates until our the last godforsaken preschooler finally gets into Kindergarten. Or, maybe she won’t and I can stop stuffing myself into those tight jeans and replace them with leggings, one in each color including multiple hues of gray.  Either way, whether I become friends with the bitch or Leggy Sue, I will continue to rate myself against them. I will rate the way I handle my kids’ tantrums. I will rate how healthy or not healthy my kid’s snack is. I will rate how much sooner my kids are potty trained compared to those whose kids are still in PullUps.  I will most likely lose in all of these categories, except potty training. I am goddamn master.

Besides being the potty training whisperer, I have yet to lose out on the category that is the most painful and isolating. It is the category that moms are not supposed to talk about. It is the category in which no one is even ranking themselves. It is the kind of category that wives only complain to their husbands about. It is the category that we all need so badly.

Intellect.

Motherhood is all consuming. I get it. Kids are important. They are our future, blah blah blah. However, if I am with another mom, the LAST thing I want to talk about is my kids, their husbands or a fucking Pinterest recipe involving a crockpot. I want to talk about me: My likes, my dislikes, my politics, your politics and books not written by Nicolas Sparks. If I am at a dance class and am secretly scouting potential mom friends and you proceed to repeatedly sing some fucking “choo choo” song with your 16.43 month old and expect us to coo or clap, I will slash your tires. 

Save that shit for the grandparents and tell me how you feel about Obamacare. 


I am a newly 30 mother of two girls who are prettier than anything I ever thought I could bake. When I am not cooking or raising kids, I pretend to teach freshman college students how to write. Recently, I moved amongst 100% strangers to Portland, OR and have discovered Whole Foods and Grocery Outlet. Blogging is the only hobby besides quitting smoking I have stuck with longer than 6 months. You can read about sibling grief,  amateur parenting, awkward Crossfit moments, and the all-too-honest recap of the stupid stuff I think about at aremypantstooloud.com 
THE EPISTOLARIANS

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