When I was in third grade, I played tennis.  Went to summer camp and sometimes even hit the court with my friends on the weekends. It’s a good sport; the outfits are sassy, it's great for any season, and the sound the ball makes during a quick-fire exchange is beyond satisfying. But when I say that I played tennis, I mean I played tennis; I was not a fierce competitor by any stretch of the imagination. My idea of a successful match was hitting the ball back and forth for hours on end. This was, and still is, my biggest fault in competitive sports.  I’m not cutthroat.  I just want to play and cool off in the pool before lunch.



Sixth grade arrived and I got a fresh perspective on competition when I joined a local neighborhood swim team.  By the end of the season, I was actually clocking decent times for a first-timer and getting the occasional blue ribbon. Winning was fun, and beating my own personal best was really, really fun, not to mention empowering. I realized that I compete better and much harder with myself than I do with the competition.



Then, six months ago, I picked up another sport: motherhood. Hoo boy, was I blind to its competitive nature, a topic that seems to be coming up everywhere I look. I’ve heard it called the Mom Wars and World War Motherhood but if I had to name it myself, I think I'd go with Competitive Mothering.



My friends could testify that I am not a heart-on-my-sleeve kind of gal.  But when Gray came and rocked my young, newlywed life, these little balls of sympathy somewhere inside of me completely unraveled. I never would have imagined myself actually wanting to talk about and sympathize with other people about all things mothering, yet there I was, wanting to relay with other women who were right there with me.  But sometimes, what I got instead was a bitter taste of this Competi-Mothering. I’m not sure if, at 23, my age has anything to do with the unsolicited advice and abrasive questioning I sometimes receive, but it sure can do a number on my confidence as a mother. Family gatherings, the baby aisle at Target, and especially online forums, all have Grand Slam potential.  As moms, we are just so mean to each other.  It’s like a grown-up version of “Mean Girls”… on steroids.  And the steroids are totally shrinking my little balls of sympathy.  



Maybe I’m just missing the cutthroat gene but now, more than ever, I am refusing to seriously consider the competition.  Why does Competi-Mom want to hear about the state of my boobs?  Or try to compete with me on “sleeping through the night?”   It’s laughable, really, but if it’s match point she’s looking for she’s clearly on the wrong court.  The only mom I have time to compete with is myself, and I’m only trying to beat my own personal best.  But if she’s looking for a relay team or wants to throw the conversation back and forth for a while, I’m her girl.

Amanda Hebert blogs at Chai Am Woman.