I was raised in a world where self-promotion was a BAD thing. You did not call attention to yourself. EVER. Certainly not in the “Oh look what I can do!” kind of way. You can balance a spoon on the tip of your nose? Big deal, so can half the kids in your class. You can ride a bike with no hands? Better be careful, smarty-pants, you will run over a snake in the road and fall down and skin your knees and the snake will up and bite you for your trouble! Got straight A’s, made the honor roll, voted most polite in your class? Shhh… You don’t want people thinking you’re a braggart, now. No, self-promotion was the second cousin of that deadly sin: Pride. And everybody knows that Pride goeth before a fall.

There is no larger venue for the fine art of bragging than the neighborhood park. Doesn’t matter which neighborhood, pick one. Stumble out of bed from your late night binging and mosey on down to where the Jr. Set likes to roll and you will find the biggest braggarts of them all. Bigger than Frat boys, and politicians, or used car salesman or that lame guy in the leisure suite at the airport bar slurring pick-up lines through pretzel crumbs. Bigger than this year’s Super Bowl Winner, last month’s lottery winner, or your Auntie Edna who is just do damn proud of her bingo winnings. $218 dollars, I tell you–nothing to be spittin’ at!

Who are these offenders of the worst kind?

Mothers.

Now, don’t get me wrong. You push melon-sized heads out of your vagina for hours on end and you have every reason to be bragging. Do it more than once, and your spousal unit should be glad to have sex again on high holy days. They should just erect a statue of you over the mantle and get on with the worshipping. Yet, do mothers expect this concrete form of adoration? Most certainly not–because, they too were raised with the directive “Thou Shalt Not Self-Promote.”

However, have you met her little Jimmy? How about her Sally? Why, these children are just the smartest and cutest children you ever did see. Why don’t you sit down awhile and listen up as to how these children are going to save the world. Right after snack, of course.

And most mothers are convinced you are blind. Which is why, they are relentless in pointing out their children’s accomplishments. “Did you see Sally go down the slide? I KNOW–she’s just so clever!” “And that Jimmy of mine, he’s reading Plato. He’s only 10 you know!” Why, if I had a dime for every “she’s so cute” and “he’s so smart” I hear in a given two hour period at my neighborhood park–I’d up and buy myself a double decaf mocha–because, let’s face it 3 bucks doesn’t go that far these days. Perhaps I’d be better off going to bingo with your Auntie Edna.

No, mothers have figured out how to blatantly flaunt the “No self-promotion” rule by focusing on their children’s accomplishments. The trick is to be creative about it–and if you observe closely you will find that play-yard bragging of the maternal kind takes on several forms. There is the beginner’s one-upping:

MOM A: Julie took her first steps at 11 months! That’s a whole month earlier than the national standard.

MOM B: Really? Wow… My Angie could talk in full sentences at only a year–can you believe that?

Which then takes on a slightly more sophisticated approach as the kidlings age and enter school:

MOM A: Shelby is so gifted. Her teacher said she was the best artist in her class.

MOM B: Oh, well Jack’s teacher told us she thinks he is the brightest kid she’s ever taught–and she’s been teaching for 20+ years!

Who hasn’t engaged in a little one-upmanship? It’s kinda classic mothering fare. Pretty harmless, if exhausting. Let’s face it, thinking up another thing your wunderkind has accomplished lately is HARD WORK. But you do it because you think your kid is just the bomb. And who can blame you? But while you are busy noticing all your child’s wonderfulness and regaling all the other mothers about such wonders–other children escape your notice. (Unless, of course, said other children are the neighborhood park’s bullies and then, look out the vile is going to spew!) No, other children are just props to your kid’s accomplishments.

Except when they’re not. That’s when the real games begin. While simple one-upping is any mother’s prerogative–comparison is not. Yet, there is always that mother in the crowd. You know who she is. She says things like, “My Jimmy got elected to Student Council this year–your Sam doesn’t really seem to understand politics, does he?” or “My Clara is going to Harvard next semester on a full scholarship. How are you paying for college for Joe?” or “My Sally said the darndest thing about your Meg, she said she tried to show Meg how to multiply but Meg didn’t seem to ‘get it.’ Aren’t kid’s funny?”

Yeah. That one. Passive Aggressive Mother. I have only one thing to say to this mother:

What the fuck is wrong with you? I’m happy that Clara is going to Harvard on a full scholarship—she’s a bright kid and will do well. But who said Joe isn’t great?

Oh, that’s right… I DIDN’T. See, that “no self promoting” rule is still in effect. I didn’t spend every waking moment telling you about Joe’s perfect grades, or how he won a scholarship for his underwater basket weaving, or how he has been recruited by NASA. No, I was too busy having the last ounce of my patience sucked up by your incessant observations about your child’s potential. I didn’t have the heart to correct your perception. How could I? You never let me get a word in edgewise.

Instead, I remind myself that “Joe’s” accomplishments are worthwhile bragging fodder but certainly not at the expense of another child. Besides, his accomplishments belong to him! And let’s be perfectly honest, all that bragging is about us. Plain old self-promotion—no matter how we soup it up to look differently.

Instead I remind myself that one day I will be old. And I will have grandchildren. And I will mosey on down to my neighborhood park and seek out Passive Aggressive Mother and sit my weary old self down right beside her. When she says, “My Sally, isn’t she cute?” I’ll reply, “Frankly, I’ve seen cuter.” And when she says, “That Jimmy, he’s just so smart.” I’ll say, “Maybe, but he seems kinda shifty to me.” Then, when she really starts to fume, I’ll nudge my grandkid who will say to her without a batting an eyelash, “What the fuck is wrong with you, lady?” to which I will reply, “And he’s only two!”