
I have a friend who thinks I'm not always the best mother.
She thinks I'm a bit slap-dash. A bit inconsistent. That I'm not across the details enough, and that for children, details matter. She thinks that out of guilt, I indulge my kids a bit.
She's right.
I have a friend who thinks I can be a bit selfish. That emotional labour isn't my strong suit, and it wouldn't kill me to lift my head and organise a birthday dinner every now and again.
She's right.
I have a friend who thinks I make my life harder than it needs to be. That I can procrastinate to the point where problems become crises.
She's 100 per cent right.
The old friends who know you best do not think you are perfect. In fact, they know, with absolute certainty, that you are not. Just as you know that about them.
The people who've been embedded in your life for a long time also know all the things you got wrong. The relationships that should have been flings. The flings that belonged to someone else. The lies you got caught in. That time your boss made a clumsy pass, and you didn't slap them down. What you say about your mother when you're drunk. That you flirt when you're feeling insecure. The hairstyles you thought were hot but made you look like a thumb.
They know all that. Ideally, they know when to remind you of these things, and when to swallow them. But not always. Because they're not perfect, either.
Any woman lucky enough to have friends knows all this.
And yet. When we depict female friendship in culture, if there is anything other than perfection, any hint of complexity beyond blind cheerleading support, we have some words at hand: Toxic. B**chy. Catty.