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Liz

Liz is a freelance writer with a day job. She writes about feminism, fashion, her forties and family....

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Ms. Perfect

Liz O'Donnell

I am blessed with a large, loving extended family and a cottage on Cape Cod. Every summer we spend our weekends together, going to the beach, grilling food, laughing and talking.

Last weekend I was there with my two children, my cousin, and his family. Our kids love spending time together and we had a great weekend. As I was putting my four year old daughter to bed Sunday night, she told me she wanted my cousin’s wife (I’ll call her Ms. Perfect)as her mother instead of me.

“Oh, really?” I said. I was quite impressed with how mature I sounded and actually felt. I can handle this, I thought.  The truth is I wasn’t that surprised.  Ms. Perfect is just that. She is kind and fun and she is great with kids. She handles her four children with ease and she is an elementary school teacher. She had spent the weekend making sure all of our combined children were covered in sunscreen and bug spray. She fed them breakfast, lunch, dinner and helped them make S’mores for snacks. She told them bedtime stories complete with nice little life lessons on sharing and friendship. And, when the kids caught a frog, she was actually interested and taught them some key facts about amphibians. She was so busy with the kids she never had time to change out of her adorable, little Size 2 Petite bathing suit all weekend.

I, on the other hand, spent the weekend with my nose buried in Vogue magazine (I love fashion and can’t get enough of the fall previews). When Ms. Perfect was telling the bedtime story, I was having a glass of wine. When she was making a habitat for the frog, I was running away from the slimy little creature. Plus I tried to never be seen in my bathing suit because it has one of those middle-age skirt things I swore I would never wear. You see, I am not a size 2 nor will I ever be called petite.

I decided I could be really, really mature. “What is it about Ms. Perfect that you like better?” I asked my daughter. “Perhaps I can try to work on those things.”

I expected to hear “She knows a lot about frogs,” or maybe, “She has better snacks.”

But she didn’t say those things. Instead she said something so horrible, so painful, that it still hurts to think about it.

“She has better style,” my daughter said, “and her bathing suit is prettier than yours.”

Guess what? We won’t be going to the Cape next weekend.