At Gwyneth’s ballet class Saturday morning, as the girls were waiting to file into the room in all of their pink and purple leotarded glory, one of the girls read aloud a sign on the door that said, “No gum.” Her mom replied very loudly, “Yes! That’s right, Dylan! It says, ‘No gum!’ That’s exactly what it says! Good job!”

(Insert my not-so-subtle eye roll here.)

And then she said, just as loudly, “But do we ever chew gum, Dylan?” (after Thomas or Bob, I wonder? Who am I kidding? This is the suburbs of Washington, DC. Of course it’s after Dylan Thomas—because it’s much more sophisticated to name your daughter after a Welsh poet who literally drank himself to death than to name her after a 1960s folk singer who, surprisingly, didn’t drink himself to death.)

Dylan shakes her head no. No, Dylan and family do not chew gum.

“Of COURSE not! We don’t chew gum do we, Dylan? Yuck.”

(Insert me blowing a bubble here.)

Gwyneth had asked me on the drive to class if she could have a piece of gum. I told her no, but after class she could. I was planning to give it to her in the car, but after I heard this, I decided to hand it to her right when she walked out of class, in front of the other mother, and then say (loudly), “Good girl! When we get home let’s eat all of your Halloween candy and watch the Playboy channel!”

For the record: I have no problem with people who don’t let their children chew gum. What annoyed the crap out of me was that she had to make the point of stating it loudly, for everyone to hear, so there would be no question of what a Good And Conscientious Mother she is.

Thus goes another day in the Parenting Olympics, where moms and dads compete daily to demonstrate their prowess in sports such as “Whose Household is More Organic,” and “My Child Wins More Stuff than Your Child,” and “We Only Use ‘I’ Statements,” and “We Never Buy Toys from China.”

Whenever these games commence, I promise myself I won’t participate. I’ll just stand on the sidelines and watch, because it’s a game I will lose. Every single time. Yet I’m constantly surprised how hard it is not to get sucked into playing. Before I know it, I’m walking in opening ceremonies parade, carrying a Hanna Anderson catalog and eating an organic muffin.

I’m not alone. Today I had a long conversation with my friend, we’ll call her “Trish,” about how, even if we have the awareness not to actively compete with the other parents, we find ourselves second-guessing our own parenting based on their self-congratulatory proclamations. When I hear other parents brag about their children’s athletic achievements, part of me wonders if I shouldn’t sign my kids up for more sports. When they brag about their academic success, part of me wonders if I should spend more time with my kids on their homework. And as much as I hate to admit it, even hearing the obnoxious woman at ballet class made me wonder if I shouldn’t let my kids chew gum. Several of my friends don’t allow it either. Am I doing something wrong?

Of course, intellectually, I know all of this is bullshit. I’m a firm believer in letting children be who they are. I don’t push them into sports they don’t want to play and I don’t push them academically. The other day Noah finished his homework and handed it to me to review. I told him some of his letters were written backwards and if he wanted help correcting them, I would help him. “But it’s up to you,” I told him. “It’s your homework. If you’re happy with it the way it is, then that’s fine.”

But I found myself holding my breath a little when I said it. Would the answer be “of course I want to fix it”—which is what I secretly hoped it would be? As someone who always liked school and worked hard to make good grades, I would have trouble understanding my children if they didn’t want to succeed academically. But it’s my responsibility to be willing to try. Because, I think, in the end, academic success amounts to very little.

This summer, I went back to my hometown for my high school reunion. The day I arrived, I drove to my high school and wandered through the halls alone. On one of them was a plaque that listed all the National Merit Scholars from every year of the school’s existence. I found my graduating class and looked at the names. And you know what I realized? Of all the people I knew on the list, none were any more successful than the rest of us. None had exceptionally interesting or unique careers. None, from what I could tell, were happier or better adjusted.

I don’t mean to diminish their accomplishment. Obviously, these are very bright people who worked extremely hard to achieve what they did, and they have every right to be proud of that—then and now. But it’s a reminder that outward signs of success are rarely synonymous with personal fulfillment. As I looked at the National Merit Scholars list, I thought of those parents who put so much stock in what their children achieve—how important it is to them and how much they push their children—but for what? Does any of it really matter?

I would even take this a step further and ask what defines success? Is it money? Prestige? Children who go to Ivy Leagues?

I doubt anyone reading this would answer “yes” to those questions. Yet many of us (myself included) can still find ourselves tangled up in the Parenting Olympics that tell us our kids must be stars—academically or athletically or artistically or all of the above. It’s a shame. A terrible shame. Because the real losers in the Parenting Olympics are our children. The second parents start competing with each other, we’re telling our kids that what matters the most is not who they are—whether they’re kind or interesting or funny or resilient—but what they do. We’re telling them, however subtly, “I love you if…” when the only thing anyone should ever hear is, “I love you because…”