How I stopped comparing myself to other parents (and what it changed for my kid)
I was leaning against the chipped painted fence outside my son’s first grade gate last month, holding a lukewarm iced coffee that had already separated into watery syrup and bitter brew, when the comparison started. One mom told the group her daughter had made regional select soccer, with tournaments every other weekend starting in October. Another chimed in that her son was already reading at a third grade level, and did anyone have good chapter book recommendations for advanced readers. Someone pulled out her phone to show a photo of her 6-year-old’s award-winning science fair volcano, painted glossy red with a label done in neat calligraphy. I stuffed my phone deeper in my pocket. My son Jax’s volcano had been a dented soda bottle covered in ripped construction paper, oozed baking soda all over the gym floor, and we’d forgotten to put his name on it entirely. He still asks me to sound out three-letter words most nights. I can’t even remember to pack him an extra pair of socks for recess.
I drove home quiet, Jax chattering in the backseat about how he’d won four square three times in a row that day, and I only half listened. By the time we got in the door, I was scrolling through the class parent Facebook group, pulling up all the posts I’d been avoiding, and adding up all the ways we were falling behind. That night, when Jax dragged his feet getting through his 10 minutes of required reading, I heard myself say, “Mia from your class reads 20 minutes all by herself every night. Why can’t you try a little harder?” He closed his book, stared at his scuffed sneakers, and mumbled, “I’m just bad at reading.” That’s when the knot in my stomach tightened enough that I knew I had to stop what I was doing.
I grew up with my mom comparing me to my cousin—straight A’s, valedictorian, perfect tennis game. I still remember sitting at family dinners, picking at my mashed potatoes, while my mom said “why can’t you be more like her.” I swore I’d never do that to my kid, but here I was, doing it anyway—not just to him, but to myself too. I was comparing my messy, work-from-home, order-pizza-twice-a-week parenting to everyone else’s curated highlight reels. I’d see a mom post about homemade organic lunches every day, and I’d feel guilty that Jax eats the same turkey and cheese sandwich three days a week. I’d see parents chaperoning every field trip, and I’d feel bad that I can’t take time off work to come.
The first small change I made was muting the class Facebook group for 30 days. I didn’t leave it, I just turned off notifications, so it doesn’t pop up every five minutes when I’m bored waiting for Jax to get out of the bath. That took 10 seconds, no big drama. The second thing I started doing is keeping a tiny note in my phone labeled “Our Stuff” where I write one small thing Jax did each day that doesn’t make it to anyone’s social media. It’s never “read five extra pages” or “made the soccer team.” Most days it’s things like “Stopped to help a little kid who dropped all their crayons at recess” or “Laughed so hard at a fart joke he snort-laughed at dinner” or “Spent 15 minutes petting the stray cat outside the library even though we were late for grocery shopping.” It takes 30 seconds a night, and when I start feeling that comparison twinge, I scroll back through it. It reminds me what I actually care about, not what some algorithm or other parent thinks is important.
I also made up a one-sentence phrase I say to myself out loud whenever I catch me comparing. It’s just “Their path is not ours.” That’s it. No big fancy mantra, just that. It stops me from spiraling before I start. I added one more small routine: I ask Jax every Sunday what he’s most proud of that week, instead of leading with questions about his reading or his math homework. Last week he said he was proud he climbed all the way to the top of the big jungle gym at the park, something he’d been scared to do for months. I never would’ve even known that if I didn’t ask— I was too focused on checking off his reading milestone.
Two weeks ago we had parent-teacher conferences. I sat down across from Jax’s teacher, and I braced myself for the note about his reading being below grade level. Instead, the first thing she said was “Jax is the kindest kid in this class. Last week a new kid got lost and upset on the playground, and Jax stayed with him the whole recess, walked him to the office, and shared his extra cookie with him. That’s a skill most adults don’t have, let alone first graders.” That’s when it clicked. I’d been so busy measuring Jax against the milestones other kids had already hit that I’d completely missed the thing he’s already better at than most people I know.
Last week I ran into the mom with the select soccer kid at the grocery store. We stood in the checkout line chatting, and she sighed and said she’s already exhausted from four practices a week, her younger daughter is feeling ignored, and she keeps wondering if she’s just pushing her son because everyone says he’s so good, not because he actually loves it that much. No one posts that part, right? The messy, tiring, worrying part that everyone has.
I still catch myself comparing sometimes. Last night I saw a reel of a 7-year-old playing piano at a big recital, and I felt that little familiar twinge, because Jax can barely remember the notes for the three songs he’s supposed to practice on his recorder for music class. But now I just say the line to myself, pull up my “Our Stuff” note, and remember that Jax can name every dinosaur that ever existed, can explain how a car engine works, and will drop anything to help someone who’s hurt. It’s not the milestone that gets posted, but it’s ours. It’s still a work in progress, I still mess up, but these days, the knot in my stomach doesn’t show up nearly as often. And Jax hasn’t said he’s bad at reading since that night a month ago.
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