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Every mother has two sets of parenting skills. One she displays in front of neighbors, strangers and her mother-in-law. The other one she employs when she is home alone with the kids after a long snow day, no milk in the house and a forgotten load of wet laundry left in the washing machine so long it smells like a golden retriever that swam through a stagnant pond.

A friend once mentioned a typical morning for her meant standing in the driveway and yelling at the kids to "just get in the goddamned car already." Then she was horrified to realize that this was the only time her neighbor ever saw her. She allowed her private demon mom to show her pockmarked face in the public mom sphere. This is a common mistake. She won't make it again. Next time she'll make sure her neighbor is on vacation before she performs her morning drama queen routine.

Right then I learned a valuable lesson about patience and parenting, and it was this: if you're going to completely lose your shit and berate your kids until you are hoarse, just make sure you're in the car with the doors closed. Also, tinted windows help.

We've all made that mistake and I'll wager none of us have forgotten the shame and guilt. It's bad enough to be caught. It's worse when you have to go through the required "I'm a terrible mother" self-flagellation afterwards.

"I can't believe that old lady saw me whack my kid. What kind of a mother whacks her kid? I don't know what I'm doing! I don't even like kids!"

But if we're honest we'll admit that we've all looked over our shoulders before we swat the kid's bum for breaking the Precious Moments statue in the Hallmark store, the one we told him not to touch ten times. If you belong to the No Spanking School, I bet you've used the Vulcan Arm-Grab, the Verbal Abuse or The Fuck-With-The-Kid's-Mind methods instead.

Or how about that teeth-clenched, strained smile Nice Mom voice? That trip to Home Depot when we say ‘darling, if you hide from Mommy in the display bathtub Mommy won't be able to find you and she'll get scared." What we're really thinking is more like "you have no idea how easy it would be for me to leave you here and drive away, so don't pull that stunt again."

When you realize you're being watched you spend a lot of time evaluating other mothers. You try to figure out what you can and can't say in front of them. Can I let down my hair with her or do I have to pretend that I know the name of the school math curriculum? Is she cool, or is she going to rat on me for putting soap on my smart-mouth kid's tongue? What if I tell her it was exfoliating soap instead of Sensitive Skin Dove?

It can be tricky. Some moms I swore were lobotomized Stepford wives turned out to be the most fun. Some hippie-dippie types I thought were okay turned out to be members of the Parenting Division of the KGB.

The gulags are full of mothers like us who said the wrong thing, just once. Like all mothers who have screwed up in public I live in fear of the van of thugs coming to get me under the cover of darkness. But then again, how hard can it be to break rocks in a prison camp after hosting a birthday party for twenty one year olds? You want a piece of me, Stalin? Do realize I was up all night stuffing goodie bags? Bring on the sledgehammer, Koba.

This division between the informant moms and the cool moms became evident one afternoon. My son had his buddy over to play. The kids had been fine but I was not having a good day. I was questioning everything from why I even had kids to why I didn't take off a year to backpack around Europe when I was twenty-two and now it's too damn late.

I was in a mood. My hair was a mess. I had been trying for some sort of look but gave up and was sucked back into baseball cap hell. I was wearing Regulation Momwear: jeans and sweatshirt, in desperate need of some tweezing, no make-up. These days, if I don't wear my under-eye cover-up spackle my friends think I'm looking to hit them up for money. I look that good.

So the mom showed up to pick up her kid and said "Gosh you look tired. Are you ok?" What a dweeb. I should have known right then that she was an informant. I mean, what mother tells another mother that she looks tired? We're ALL tired ALL the time. It's like pointing out that the grass is green, for fuck's sake.

Forcing a chuckle, I told her I was just having a bad day and wanted to run away from home. The usual "let's make light of this and laugh" repartee. But she took me at face value and stood there with her mouth open. Later she mentioned to other mothers that she was worried about me!

I started getting concerned calls from other moms in town, thinking I was on the brink of pulling a Sylvia Plath. And I thought I was putting on a brave face! Good thing I didn't tell her that I had just gotten a tattoo and was considering selling my kids on e-Bay with the Buy It Now! option activated.

So no matter how rotten your kids behave keep that Evil Mom locked up in the attic with a wig and a rocking chair. And beware of the informants.

Now that you know they're out there keep an eye out for these types: Those old folks who forgot how hard it is to raise kids and only remember the sweet things like choo-choo footie pajamas. The childless couples on their way to a quiet restaurant meal who look on aghast as you comically maneuver the double stroller while juggling cups of cheerios and vats of diaper wipes. Even the other mothers you thought you could trust may squinting at you and whispering into their Mother's Day corsages/mini walkie-talkie.

You're probably being watched even as you read this. Don't look up! Just dredge up those Nice Mom skills that you use in public. Refer to yourself in the third person and say things like "hurry, darling, Mumsy doesn't want you to be late for Kinder-Richment!" Fight the urge to say "for the love of Pete, move! I'm going to light a fire under you if you don't pick up the pace, sloth-boy!"

Despite all your precautions you may accidentally expose your private mom skill set in front of the wrong people. If one night you find yourself handcuffed in the back of a prison van with a blanket over your head, don't despair. We can room together in Shawshank.

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