I sat at the park today with other moms. Some with one child; others with two or another on the way. We admitted to watching way too much TV or eating meals alone just for the privacy. We shared our worries about being judged for giving our kids white bread or watching old reruns of Dawson’s Creek. We each worry, almost daily that we are bad mommies. That we yell at our kids too much (or at all). How “other moms” always seem to have it all together. Except us. We each think we’re the only one. The bad one. The imperfect one. The one who feeds her kids boxed macaroni and cheese and then eats candy while they’re sleeping. The one who counts down the hours until bedtime. The one who loves her children desperately and still wants to sell them to a zoo. It was like group therapy except with babies hanging from our hips and toddlers clinging to our knees. We are all that mom. And none of us are bad moms.