Curse you, Supermom!

I see this woman every week at my daughter's dance class. She says her name is Gwen, but I think it's an alias, like Clark Kent, or Peter Parker, or George Stroumboulopoulos. She is Supermom.

You probably know her, or someone like her. She's never harried or flustered. She's always on time. Her hair is always perfect. Her shoes always match. She keeps anything you might ever need in her designer tote, like a grown-up version of Dora's backpack.

Supermom, I mean Gwen, is an elementary school teacher. She speaks perfect French. Her children are always clean and well behaved. She wears tailored dress pants and stylish jackets, and none of her clothes have cookie crumbs or dog hairs on them. She volunteers with after school groups, and tutors kids on the weekends. She reads poetry in the waiting room.

And she's thoughtful. At Christmas, she brought treats for all the dance school teachers, complete with handmade name tags. She actually knew all the names. She delivered them in a red riding hood style basket.  

Sitting across the room in my jeans and hoodie, reading the latest Stephen King, it's easy to feel intimidated by Gwen. She's always one step ahead. I study her from behind my book, hoping to learn her secret. If only I had mind reading abilities, or some sort of superpower stealing laser. I want to know all her tricks.

Then our kids come skipping out of class, her perfectly coiffed ballerina and my hip hop girl with the messy ponytail. The hug I get is just as big as hers.

We exchange pleasantries on our way out. Her shiny, just waxed car is parked next to mine. She waves and says "See you next week!" I could really detest her, if only she wasn't so nice.

I bet this is how Lex Lutor feels.