I remember the moment I developed my first Mom Crush. I was hosting one of those lame at-home jewelry parties that 30 year-old women seem to need in order to socialize, because blatantly saying “Why don’t you come over and we can get hammered?” is only acceptable in your 20s. In reality? It’s a room full of yoga pants, boxed wine, and regret.
This Mom (we’ll call her Xena, Warrior Princess) came in as the guest of a friend, looking like she had just wrapped a Victoria’s Secret fashion shoot. I registered the fact that an 8 month-old baby was with her, but I was more focused on an escape route so that I could give myself a mani/pedi, partial highlight, quick microdermabrasion, and perhaps whip up a desperate audition tape for What Not To Wear.
Yes, Xena was beautiful, in the way that only people who were born in Brazil or Chile or Australia (but definitely NOT Ohio**) can be. She had on a pair of boots that I stared at so lustfully, I almost flirted with them. “Tori Burch,” she told me (probably noting my hair color, eye color, height, and weight, in case she had to file an eventual restraining order against me).
But she was also a breath of fresh air. She passed her baby around the room full of strangers, sipped her red wine, and talked about her stance on motherhood with no shame: “Another baby? Absolutely not. I did what women are supposed to do: get married and reproduce. My job is done. And now the world better look out, because it’s time for ME. We’re moving to Paris in 2 weeks.” (Yes, my gasp was audible. What? I had a whole Thelma and Louise thing- minus the cliff, plus a cameo by Channing Tatum- taking place in my head while she was talking.)
I tried holding her baby for a while, hoping she would notice me. I can move to Paris too! It can’t be a coincidence that I speak fluent French! Our kids can star in GAP Kids commercials and we can sip lattes at cafés and wear Tori Whats-Her-Name boots together! But then I realized something: she didn’t seem to care about her kid all that much. (The letdown was similar to finding out your high school crush still sleeps in his parents’ bed during thunderstorms: a total dealbreaker.) And although my son was in the midst of an all-female jewelry party, at least I had the decency to make him a fort in the corner of the room, fill it with cookies, and give him unlimited Nintendo access.
So that was it. I got over my Mom Crush and moved on. (Or, more accurately, I put on my yoga pants, Googled ‘Tori Burch Boots,’ and called my sister to talk about how fiscally irresponsible Xena must be.) My life was Cool enough without a Brazilian Bestie. Besides, I doubt they have a Target in Paris.
**Or apparently, McIntyre, Georgia. As evidenced by the Honey Boo Boo family.
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