I’m Not Like Other Moms… No, Really

This one’s for the moms who do the school run in witchy tattoos and floral pants, Red Bull in hand, and no interest in PTA gossip. I see you.

If someone had just told me that parenting involved this many social interactions, I might’ve skipped the whole “mom” thing and opted to be the rich aunt who shows up with inappropriate jokes and overpriced Lego sets. Because parenting? It’s not just keeping tiny humans alive. It’s planning playdates, navigating awkward school fundraisers, and pretending to care deeply about soccer team WhatsApp groups when all you really want is to be left alone in peace.

We all like to think we’re not like other moms—but I actually mean it. Bright red hair. Tattooed arms with witches and sacred symbols. Hippie floral pants. I show up at my kids’ private school looking like I’ve walked off the set of a boho fantasy film, while the other moms are dressed in coordinated activewear, clutching Stanley mugs like emotional support water bottles. Their vibe says “I just came from Pilates.”

And then there’s the age gap. I had my boys at 19 and 21, so while they’re on the edge of their teens, I’m still in my mid-thirties—and the average parent around me is pushing their mid-forties or fifties. You feel it. In the way they talk about tech like it’s black magic. In the panic over Discord, Roblox, or “those YouTubers.” In the complete disconnect between their kids and their lives. And look, I get it. Parenting is hard. But I also like my kids. We talk. We joke. We share music, inside jokes, weird questions, mental health check-ins, and real talk—without me sugar-coating reality or dumping my trauma on them. We still believe in Santa. But they also know I sometimes cry in my car and swear when I stub my toe.

And I am the mom in the car line. Every day. First in, first out. I help with projects, pack the lunches, stock the pantry with their favourite snacks, and bend over backwards to show up for them. But I won’t be standing around making small talk about curried mince or school board meetings. I’m the one sitting in my car with music playing, Red Bull in hand, reading on my Kindle while avoiding eye contact like it’s a competitive sport.

Social gatherings with other parents? A personal circle of hell. I can handle a crowd—but the forced small talk, the backhanded humblebrags, the gossip I can’t pretend to care about? No, thank you. One time a fellow parent’s mother looked at me like I was tracking mud into her soul. I promise you, I was wearing Jasmine perfume that day. Whatever scent she caught was not mine.

So I’ve perfected the art of the Irish goodbye. Drop-offs and pickups are executed with military precision and minimal conversation. A friendly wave, a rushed “How are you?” and a quick “Sorry, we’ve got somewhere to be”—by which I mean: the couch. Where the pants come off, the bra gets flung, and I reclaim my silence like a prize.

I may not fit in. But I know where I stand—with my kids. And if that means being the loud-laughing, floral-wearing, socially awkward witch in the parking lot… I’m good with that.