Perfect

There is a mummy in a class I go to once a week,

She’s young and pretty, groomed ... composed, in awe I sneak a peek.

Long dark hair and slim of build, I can’t help but feel a frump,

I look down at faded leggings, in my throat I feel a lump.

I think it’s time I upped my game so next time take some care,

I slick black liner on my eyes, I even brush my hair.

Arriving early at the class I feel a sense of shock,

As perfect-mum removes her shoes, revealing holes in grubby socks.

So stunned am I to see this this flaw, this crack in her perfection,

I find it hard to look away and force myself to change direction.

Looking closer at her I can see that she’s been crying,

I catch her eye, smile and chat, feel bad I've been caught spying.

It turns out she’s been up all night, her toddlers having nightmares,

She’s struggling with her workload and she can’t afford her train-fares.

Her partner works such long hours and her in-laws are invasive,

She wants to stay part-time but pushy bosses are persuasive.

She says she’s found it hard to cope, her old friends free and single,

She says she’s always been quite shy, at classes finds it hard to mingle.

We all have bad days, don’t compare - try not to judge each other,

In sweat-pants or designer jeans it’s hard to be a mother.