The near perfect mother.

She knew more about children and their ways than I did.A working woman, an accountant of my age , of similar set up but without kids.She never wore this emptiness on her sleeves and was as gay and happy as any one could be.Yet I could detect her envy , though very subtle when topics as it often did amongst a group of women ,though i was doubly careful not to rub it on, veered around children , their whims and fancies.

All through the long years of expectations and its destruction she had lived every thing , delivering, rocking, raising ,whacking a child and also laughing with a child, her child in her mind, as a perfect mother whilst i had actually done all those with a lesser finesse.She let this out through her insightful observations into children's behaviour, that always startled me.

I saw her one day on the landing whilst i was going through a crisis , absorbed totally in my children's problems .She was leaving for work.Her face unlined, uncreased and tranquil.There were no dark shadows under her clear eyes , her steps firm and quick. She had the usual smile.

I felt a twinge of envy at her cheerful countenance and at the college girl like, spring in her,though she was deep into the mouldy, middle age .It was now my turn to think 'how lucky you are'. For living only the happy part of being a perfect mother and not and ever, the sad part.