I remember the moment I realized what I?ve become.
It was the end of another long day of infant wrangling, which had been preceded by a night of many interruptions (this was before we sleep trained, so yeah, I was not my best self). I crawled into bed, exhausted, and of course checked my phone. My best friend, who had a baby seven weeks before I did, had posted on a Facebook group about hunting for childcare she didn?t actually need for more than a year. I took a screenshot and texted it to her, gently chiding her for being one of ?those? moms?the ultra-planners, the A-type, the obsessed. We kept talking (I?m not sure why she didn?t just tell me goodnight), and she shared that she managed to sign her baby up for swimming lessons, snagging one of relatively few spots, and successfully navigating the byzantine public services registration system. Instead of congratulating her, I was pissed. ?Another thing I didn?t realize I needed to think about,? I morosely typed. ?Can?t my son just be a goddamn baby"? This exchange did not make me proud. Who was I to try to make my friend feel bad for being on top of it, for doing what?s right for her kid" Why did I try to make this about me" And why did I feel like I?and worse, my son?just didn?t measure up"

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