“Sounds like a living, breathing social media post.” This, from my therapist, after I told her how the devil that is comparison spurred sad tears on Mother’s Day.
The definition of comparison is “a consideration or estimate of the similarities or dissimilarities between two things or people.” On Mother’s Day, my busy beaver of a brain was eagerly in search of dissimilarities.
The sun was bright and warm that day. As a gift to myself, I walked to Lake Michigan.
Just a mile from my front door, the lake feels like an extension of home. My husband and I refer to the verdant park that hugs the shoreline as “our estate.” A nickname adopted during daily people-free pandemic walks. We’d rise before dawn to groggily amble toward the shore. As the cobwebs blew off, we’d watch the sun slip above the shimmering lake. Our estate rarely disappointed.
When I arrived at the lake, the sun cast its warm rays on many happy families. I spread a blanket along the retaining wall, opened my take out lunch, and kicked off my Birkenstocks. A picnic for one.
“Our estate is beautiful today,” I thought, taking a bite of my messy and delicious mediterranean salad
The sun warmed me up from the outside in. Children happily yelped; playing a game of hide and seek with the waves as they ebbed and flowed. Couples strolled by, hand in hand. Young parents pushed prams while trying to wrangle zippy speed racers on training-wheeled bikes.
Our estate was filled to the brim with joy and happiness.
Relishing the final sips of an agave lemonade, I bagged up the remnants of lunch, grabbed my blanket and scouted a section of soft grass to stretch myself out on. Shaded under a graceful Ginko tree, I settled in with a good audiobook.
The Ginko’s leaves shook like tiny tambourines. The blue sky above punctuated by candy floss clouds. It was a good day. I was content. What more could I ask for?
A cluster of onimous clouds began to blot out the sun. My cue that the picnic for one was done.
Margaret Atwood’s short story “My Evil Mother” whispered in my ear as I walked the path home. The path connects the neighborhood to the lakefront. It is always full of life. Bikers pretend to slow their roll as they weave in and out of strolling elderly couples, wobbly toddlers, and living-breathing Facebook families.
Happy families. Together. On Mother’s Day.
In an instant, my happiness dissolved. Ominous clouds threatened to storm. My brain racheted into comparison high-gear.
Why wasn't my family with me? (Because I didn’t want them to be and they didn't want to come.) Why wasn't I laughing while holding hands with my daughter? (Because she is hooked to my hip on the daily I was looking for a precious few hours of alone time.) Why weren't my sons gamely chatting with their father as they walked the family dog? (There’s too much to cover here in one quippy response, so I’ll just say: We don’t even have a dog.)
I experienced the afternoon I wanted. I couldn’t have scripted it to go better - with me starring as me. Why the comparison blues? Why did my eyes suddenly leak? Where oh where had my contentment gone?
“As a young parent, I envisioned a J. Crew family,” me, again, to my therapist. “Or at a minimum, a JC Penny family! Perfectly posed. Matching outfits. Smiles plastered to our faces.”
She asked me what seeing those picture-perfect (looking) families made me feel. Angry. Annoyed. Like I was doing it wrong. Sad. Bad. Even though I know I am doing my best. That my family is beautiful and annoying and wonderful just as they are.
She asked me to reflect on my feelings. Why, if I know life is not a magazine photo shoot, do I imagine others have it better? Easier? More perfect?
Because I want the magic and ease the picture-perfect family sold me. There was no caption on the sales catalog that advised: This family is STAGED. They don’t even know one another. This isn’t their beautiful house. This isn’t his beautiful wife. This isn’t even a life.
Comparison is the thief of joy. It’s The Hamburgler, snatching away your greasy goodness. Laughing gleefully as he scampers away. Leaving you with a gut-punch feeling that you and he will meet again.
I’m working on all the comparisons: What I thought I wanted vs. where I landed. The lies I was sold and clutched close to my heart as aspirational truth vs. my lovely little life. That plans work out, you can control most things, and the Hamburgler is real vs. We plan, God laughs; most of life is out of our control, and the Hamburgler is some dude sweating his bollocks off in a costume.
The best way I know to protect myself from the perils of comparison is to notice when I’m comparing veneer to real hardwood. To let the younger version of me know, it’s ok. You’re doing so much better than you thought you would. Families don’t need matching outfits to be whole.
As Mother’s Day came to a close, my sons asked about my day. I told the truth: So lovely and a little sad. We were in the backyard, letting Charlie the Guinea pig nibble on the lawn. I recounted happy moments and explained my sudden tears. My teen boys each put an unexpected arm around my shoulders. My older son offered these words: “We don’t want their lives anyway.”
If only someone snapped a photo of this living, breathing social media post.
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