She is empathetic but not overbearing, loving but not unkind, wise but not self-righteous, concerned but not insecure. Even though she knows her danger, she is a mother who never checks on her child for the wrong reasons.
A better mother is, by definition, a better mother than me.
Sometimes she’s a complete stranger spotted at a museum, other times she’s a familiar face at a birthday party. In any case, she’s a natural star of a play where she can’t quite remember her lines.
Most mothers, and fathers, probably have their own personal vision of competition, depending on their own skills. For me, it depends on the situation, my mood, the position of the child in question and the parents nearby, and maybe even the last TV show I watched or the book I’m reading.
At one time, I decided that a better mother than me was Mary-Kay Wilmers, former editor of the London Review of Books. Although she has never met this woman, she has read about it in “Love, Nina: A Dispatch from Her Family Life”. A memoir by Nina Stibbe, who served as a nanny to the Wilmers’ two precocious sons. Wilmers surrounded her children with some of Britain’s wisest luminaries, including the playwright and novelist Alan Bennett, the biographer Claire Tomalin, and the critic John Rahr. Raised in an intelligent environment, her sons developed sharp wits and a dry, slightly sinister sense of humour.
With no notable literary figures to grace the table, I vented all my harshest comments, the kind of uncharitable thoughts usually reserved for like-minded adults. It was just that. Sadly, I had no elegant British companion, so I was simply encouraging rude sarcasm. My mistake was highlighted in front of my friend Robin, another Better Mother. Robin’s children seemed like strangers when they met, but they shook hands firmly and managed civilized politeness.
