Rebecca Eckler

“I’ve become so judgmental,” I admitted to my friend.

As most mothers know, it’s hard not to be judged, or judge other mothers. I work hard not to be a judgmental mother. If I see your kid with a messy face, I get it. If you pick the soother off the restaurant floor and wash it off in your glass of water, I don’t judge. Been there. Done that.

While I try and not judge mothers, I judge non-mothers these days. I’m not sure why.

My friend had just told me about the night she had, where she did cocaine and closed down a bar.

As she was telling me the story, a gleeful tone in her voice, I realized I was getting mad. I started….gaa!...lecturing her! “Why did you stay out so late?” And, “Why do you want to go to a place you can only get into with a secret password?” And, “Hard drugs, not cool!”

Her response was that every once in a while, she needed to blow off steam, and that I should do the same thing. And, what did I care? She’s not a mother. She does coke once every two years. I’m trying to figure out why I do care.

Is it because I’m jealous because I haven’t blown off steam forever? I laughed when a friend called and told me she saw my photo in Toronto Life after I had gone to the Power Ball. “I didn’t know you still did those things,” she said.

“Well, there was a V.I.P thing at 6:30. The big party actually started at 9 p.m. and people were just arriving when I left at 8:45 p.m.,” I told her.

Part of the problem is that I don’t want to be perceived as the mother who goes out, stays out late, and gets drunk. This is very Canadian of me. Of course, in places across Europe, mothers take their babies to bars.

“What do you care what people think?” my friend asked. This is the point when you realize, again, that non-mothers think differently.

Recently, I heard a story about a former colleague and acquaintance, who just got back from a second trip to rehab. It was a gossip-worthy story, but it made me cringe. She is a mother, and all I kept thinking was, “Her children!”

Going out IS important. I have no problem with meeting for dinner or early drinks. I, no doubt, will need to blow of steam and get plastered. One day.

But, over the past five years, I’ve started to play the “Would I rather?” game. “Would I rather go to a place with a secret password or see my beautiful daughter’s face before she goes to bed?” Or, “Would I rather have a hangover or make sure my daughter’s knapsack has all her supplies in it for camp?”

I suppose it’s okay for me to judge my friend. She, of course, is judging me, no doubt wondering when I became so lame. I AM lame. Judge away.