Once, years ago, when I was teaching in Kansas City at a Hoity Toity Catholic Joint, we hired a speaker to come and motivate our students to stop bullying one another. I really can't remember who the guy was or what his schtick was, but I remember one thing: he told the students over and over again to "share, don't compare."

While I am not usually one for self-help gurus, overly simple "quotes of the day" or platitudes of any sort, that little phrase stuck with me. I suppose it was because I am just a little bit guilty of comparing. I mean, sometimes, I might, just for a second, look at someone else's house and compare it to my own. Or, maybe once or twice I have thought about someone else's fashion sense, or maybe I've just for a SPLIT SECOND considered how I rank as opposed to other mothers.

I mean, clearly, this is not a BIG problem for me. Clearly, I don't give a whit that EVERYONE I KNOW has a bigger, better house than I do, or that I've never owned a pair of Jimmy Choos, let alone a handbag that didn't come from either Target, a street vendor, or a thrift store. I'M NOT BITTER. I'm just saying, that once in a teeny weeny while, I might compare. Just a little. Not that often. Only in my weakest, darkest moments.

So I remember that little phrase from time to time, when I am starting to feel a little bit sorry for myself because I am realizing that I don't have anywhere to put my glorious kitchenaid mixer in my tiny kitchen, but I saw that old friend on Facebook yesterday, the one who is showing off pictures of her brand new McMansion. I remember that my street has mature trees, and I try to be happy. I remember that we are not all the same, and I should SHARE, NOT COMPARE.

I also try to recall this mantra when it comes to mothering. I had heard the horror stories before I ever got pregnant, the ones about how mommies are the most competitive bunch in the world, and will forever berate each other with stories about THE BEST daycares, the strollers they spent a college fund on, the honor roll, the wonderkind who spoke in sentences at nine months and read his first Harry Potter book at age four. But I didn't really believe them. I thought these were people who needed something to complain about, who (oh, how I love this phrase and the really nastiness of it) "didn't have a life." I mean, who really has time to care about the brand of baby sling your neighbor got? I didn't get it.

When I got pregnant, I vowed not to join ranks with the hater-mommies. I wasn't going to fall victim to the comparisons of womanhood attached to being THE BEST MOM EVER. I didn't care if anyone called me a "super-mom" - I just wanted to be a good mom in the best way I knew how, and I wanted everyone to leave me alone and stay out of my way.

I set out collecting secondhand baby gear, refurbished baby furniture, and hand-me-down baby clothes. I was so proud of myself, for being a budget mom and avoiding my competitive impluses, for being practical and savvy instead of trying to keep up with the elusive Joneses. (Really, I don't know any Joneses with whom to keep up.)

I squelched the impulses I had to harangue all my friends with older kids with questions like "When did YOUR baby sit up/crawl/walk/say her first word?" I didn't want to compare. I WANTED TO SHARE! So share, I did.

Every time some friend of mine got pregnant, I'd regale them with information about what baby gear to get where, and cheap. I'd freak out if someone suggested that a $40 pair of baby jeans they found online were cute. "WHY ARE YOU SHOWING ME THIS? My kid will never have $40 jeans! I don't have $40 jeans!" Oh, crap.

In my efforts to be the no-competition mom, I had inadvertently become just that. Rather than comparing myself with the moms who bought the fanciest gear, who flaunted their babies in Janie and Jack outfits and had the money to send them to every KinderMusic class in Lawrence, I'd become just as repulsive on the other end of the spectrum.

I was the woman who judges not because a parent isn't doing enough, but because they're doing TOO MUCH.

For crying out loud.

So after I gave myself a good talking to, put myself in time-out for thirty-seven minutes (BLISS!), and recovered my sanity, I started again, with new resolve.

I WILL SHARE, NOT COMPARE.

I will answer the questions of new moms and moms-to-be honestly and with my own experience, but they are NOT REQUIRED to take my advice. If a new mom wants to purchase a thousand dollar carseat and travel system, that is her prerogative. If she feels her baby is best served by having a team of round-the-clock nannies, by golly, she should do it.

I mean it, people. I am not here, anymore, to either beat myself up or beat up my fellow moms. I will not take secret offense when someone tells me that my idea of great childcare does not coincide with hers. I will not feel inferior when I talk to a stay-at-home mom and admit I have to go to work five days a week.

Today, my baby fell down and smacked his eye against a corner. He has a tiny little cut and his first shiner. I will not cower on the streets, hoping that the other moms won't judge me for being so reckless with his little head. I will let him wear his shiner with pride. I AM NOT PERFECT, and NEITHER ARE YOU.

However, I cannot promise that I will not secretly look at every baby I meet and say in my head, "Mine's cuter." Because he is. And I think that is a mother's right - to believe her child is the most beautiful one ever created.

I mean, seriously, have you seen him?

first birthday by meganstuke