Skye and I experienced a few firsts this year that made me realize just how quickly she’s growing up. Her first day of preschool, my first parent teacher “conference,” her first field trip. I will remember each one as yet another amazing milestone; watching my baby become a little girl, and before I know it, a young woman.

Although the field trip was Skye’s favorite – she’s still talking about riding the city bus to the carousel, two months later – it’s a milestone that was slightly bittersweet for me. I could have gone on that first field trip, but I didn’t.

I chickened out.

You see, in the days leading up to trip, I thought I had a meeting that would conflict with any potential chaperoning, though Skye had been begging me to come.

Then about an hour before we had to leave, I realized my meeting was actually the next day; I could have send her teacher a text and gone on the trip, but I didn’t. I told myself I didn’t have time to shower – something I hadn’t done in two days – and that I should use the day to run child-free errands instead.

In reality, I was allowing my own insecurities to get the better of me.

I chickened out of my daughter’s field trip, mainly because of the overwhelming feelings of inadequacy I often experience when around the other, older, moms of kids in Skye’s class. As irrational as I know it is, they seem more mommy-ish than I am somehow.

In our previous encounters during pickups and drop-offs, none of the other mothers have ever given me cause for these insecurities: there’s never been a sign that any of them see me as being less-than because of my age, in any way. I know there isn’t some kind of club that I haven’t been invited to join, that this isn’t motherhood hazing.

I’m perfectly aware that it’s all in my head. Yet it’s there all the same, and I can’t make it go away. I’ve always believed that age is just a number, so why am I letting those numbers get in the way of feeling connected to other moms?

Just because I’m five to ten years their junior, doesn’t make me any less of a mother. I have vivid memories of my eleven and a half hours of labor to back me up on that. I’ve been pooped on, peed on and spent sleepless nights trying to comfort a sick baby. I’ve juggled school, work and being a single parent, all while painfully leaving my daughter at daycare far more often than I wanted. If those things don’t make me a mom, I don’t know what would.

I realize I shouldn’t beat myself up about it so much. No sane parent has ever entertained an image of perfection, and neither have I. Nor should we.

It’s very unlikely that Skye will even remember her first preschool field trip in a few years. If she does, it’s even more unlikely that what she’ll remember it as that time mommy didn’t go. I know I should try to do the same, go easier on myself. Remember how much fun she had riding the carousel with her teacher, not how I let my own insecurities and shyness win.

I want to try and be more like my fearless daughter, who doesn’t have an introverted bone in her body. She is so confident and sure of herself in any situation, I can learn as much from her as she can from me.

The only other thing I can do is make a promise to myself to try harder, and to believe in my worth as a mom. I won’t miss another field trip if I am remotely able to go. Even if it’s completely last minute and I haven’t showered in a week. I refuse to miss out on any more firsts because I’m scared of what the other moms will think of me. Because at the end of the day, we’re all in this shit storm together. We’re just parents, all of us struggling with one thing or another. And if we can’t count on our fellow parents to have our backs, who can we count on?

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