A month or so ago, while reading one of the weekend papers and basking in the glory of autumn’s sunshine, I came upon an article about model Rachael Finch. The article described Finch as ‘the very embodiment of a thoroughly modern mother’ and went on to say how the model and her husband, Michael Miziner (who she met in romantic fashion on Dancing with the Stars), tag team the care of their two-and-a-half year old daughter, Violet. On weekdays Michael stays home with Violet until 3pm, when Rachael gets home and he heads off to work as a dance teacher. Nothing too outrageous here, any family that includes shift workers will know this ‘ships in the night’ routine.

What jumped out at me though, was the next part of the article. The part where it outlined their weekend care-arrangement for young Violet, “Every weekend (Violet) goes to Mish’s mum’s house, and we get our weekend to ourselves. I think that’s incredibly healthy for the relationship. And on Sunday, when we pick her up, we have 100 per cent energy back.”

What? You get time off from being a parent? You get the whole weekend to yourselves?! I didn’t think such an arrangement could exist!

I’m ashamed to say, my initial reaction was one of disbelief and contempt. What kind of mother leaves their daughter every weekend so that they can nurture their relationship and socialise with their husband? Surely that’s not good for their little girl.

But then I let it all sink in. And I thought about it. What would life be like for Violet?

Well, when she’s home all day with her dad she would be loved. When her mum gets home, after no doubt missing her all day, she would be loved. When her grandmother looks after her on the weekends and spoils her like only grandmothers can, she would be loved. The love! That little girl would know nothing but I-would-rather-die-than-have-anything-happen-to-you love. Sounds pretty great to me.

It might not be an arrangement that suits my family, and I still don’t think it’s something I could do, but what makes me one to judge? She probably wouldn’t eat seven mint slices in one sitting, so you know, horses for courses.

So that got me thinking even more. What made me react to this story about a beautiful mother and her daughter in such a judgemental way?

Now this is just my crazy brain turning it all over, and I certainly don’t think I’m speaking for the masses here, but I wonder if it stems back to the old kindergarten days of ‘It’s not fair, she got a head start.’ She got a head start in The Amazing Race of Motherhood! We’re all back here at the starting blocks, putting The Wiggles on so we can shower in peace, micro-managing kids so that we can get an eyebrow wax, freezing yoghurt pouches so our toddlers take longer to eat them and we get five minutes more time to shop (wait, is that just me?).

While she, over there, she gets the whole weekend to herself! Someone call the race officials, the girl is cheating!

No wonder she can look so bloody gorgeous. No wonder she makes it all look so easy.

We find it really hard not to compare ourselves to other competitors *cough* I mean, mothers. We size them up. See how we fit in. ‘Ok so I’m slightly better than the gambling mother who hit the slots while her kids sat in the car, but not quite as good as that mum over there whose child would like their quinoa crusted veggie burger when you get a chance please mummy.’

The trouble is, we’re competing in a race you can’t win. You can’t win a race where there is no measureable outcome, and the outcome of motherhood is love.

What could be less quantifiable? We all love our kids. We love them more than any word could ever describe. It’s not something you can count or score or time. You can’t bottle it or trade it. We only know it’s there because we feel it. And man do we feel it.

So if something another mum does challenges our way of parenting – makes us question if we’re doing it right – well, it brings out the competitor in all of us. It raises the hair on our necks like a cat ready to claw.

And I think maybe that’s why we get so defensive of our own mothering style, and in turn become quite critical of the way others choose to parent.

It’s like there’s a little parrot sitting on our shoulder, let’s call him The Guilt. We all know The Guilt intimately. The Guilt is like a small child who hears a thousand wonderful words a day, but chooses to repeat that one swear word that tumbled uncontrollably out of our mouth. Everyday we make choices and sacrifices for our kids. We do this passionately and whole-heartedly and from a place of complete and utter love. But even with our best intentions, The Guilt can make us feel like we’re not doing enough. We’re not winning this motherhood race.

When I choose to top up my hungry baby with formula because he has drank me dry, I do this out of love. But if I listen to The Guilt I’ll hear him say ‘you could’ve tried harder.’

When I let my baby grizzle so that he puts himself to sleep, I do this out of love and a conviction that it is right for my children and me. But if I listen to The Guilt I’ll hear him say ‘you’re baby needs you, you’re breaking his trust.’

When I co-sleep with my child, I do this out of love and a desperate need for sleep. But if I listen to The Guilt I’ll hear him say ‘you’re making a rod for your own back, you’re baby will never sleep through the night.’

When I send my child to day care one day a week, I do this out of love and a burning desire to sit down for 10 minutes while the baby sleeps. But if I listen to The Guilt I’ll hear him say ‘how can you send your child away when you’re at home?’

The Guilt sat on my shoulder when I read about Rachael Finch and it said ‘She is winning at motherhood AND looking after her relationship, are you?’

Well you know what The Guilt? You can shove your annoying little voice up your bum! You will not make me turn on a fellow mum, who no doubt has her own parrot sitting right there squawking untruths in her perfectly symmetrical ears. You will not make me question every decision I make for my family. And you will not stop me from freezing yoghurt pouches so my toddler sits still for a few moments longer. Because everything I do comes from a place of love (or a need to stay sane).

Motherhood is the ultimate equaliser. It doesn’t matter if you’re rich, poor, beautiful, homely, outgoing, introverted, famous or a hermit. And it doesn’t matter what parenting label you attach or don’t attach yourself to. Because at the end of the day we all follow the same style: Loving our kids. Just love their little hearts out and the rest will follow.

And you know, I’ve never really been very competitive anyway. I’m more of a ‘in it for the drinks’ kind of girl. So, you beautiful, passionate, multitaskers – wipe that parrot off your shoulder! Cheers to being bloody mediocre, but with the best of intentions.

Now, which grandmother wants my kids for the weekend…