I’m an admitted Anglophile; by contrast, and as many of my Asian friends know, I am not such a fan of Far Eastern culture. Hello Kitty creeps me out, and don’t even get me started on anime. That skit on SNL knows what I’m talking about. So the point is, I showed up (at my TV) for the opening ceremonies of this year’s Olympic games with a bit of a bias. Also, I have this thing where I don’t enjoy shameless human rights violations. Add it all up, and I was preordained to enjoy London’s take on the event over that of Beijing.

And here’s the deal: I was right. At least, as far as I’m concerned, and that’s authority enough for me, because when I compare the two ceremonies, their differences unsurprisingly leave me rooting for the free country. Sure, the Chinese spectacle was a sight to behold; but it was Communism in visual form, thousands of images on repeat, each the same as the one before it, matching individuals in perpetuity. Conformity expressed as virtue. Last night, though, in London? Creativity was the honored guest: originality on display. Individuals were singled out, not dressed in matching costumes and given their marks so that the unit moved as a synchronized whole. Literature, film, poetry (shut up, Shakespeare wrote poetry too and I needed another example) played out on stage; authors were honored by way of their images come to life (J.M. Barrie) or their vocal participation (J.K. Rowling). The event was patriotic, to be sure–but it honored a nation that promotes the excellence of individual differences rather than machine-like group efficiency.  So…cheerio, bitches.

Maybe I take that contrast so personally because I struggle against conformity myself and can’t stand to see it touted as a strength when I know the lies it tells. At this point in my life, I’ve been around long enough to know how the push to conformity feeds insecurity: I went to high school, after all. But there are some who would be content with those teenage years going on forever–gossiping at lockers and comparing labels translated into judgments based on stay-at-home vs. career, or which type of stroller your kid drives. I have no desire to be a soldier in the Mommy Wars, but that doesn’t mean my ire remains flat at all times, or I don’t feel the seeds of competition springing up in my soul when pride always shows up with water.

There are still certain terms and lingo that I freely judge for their cringe-worthiness, though. The weirdos at American Girl sent me a brochure recently, and I turned it face-down in the trash because who needs a Chucky look-alike staring back at her? And before The Kid came along, I would gag a little anytime I heard a mother riff about how in love she was with her child. That kind of language, I would think, is reserved for one person–and he’s not wearing diapers. Yet.

I’m still not in love with the phrase (see what I did there?), but parenting has tempered my inner critic much like New York tempered my politics (which is to say, a little). I believe in a “best” way of doing things rather than a “right” way, which may seem like semantics but, to me, simply leaves room for individuality and grace (unless your kid tears up my house and you just sit there smiling apologetically, in which case–what’s wrong with you?). Then there’s the tiny matter of my own heart and its current state of enamoredness with an eighteen-pound-and-growing, half-me ball of (mostly) joy. The early ambivalent days have given way to smiles and laughter. (And two days naps and twelve-hour nights. He’s especially cute when he sleeps.) And though you may never hear me use that dreaded in-love terminology, I get it. I get why people go to that creepy doll store and why they overuse the word sweet in Facebook posts and while I may not condone either; while I may never make separate “kid” dinners or play Wiggles music in the car or let my children interrupt my conversations, I get that we all do this differently and that we all love those little monsters.  And that there’s room for love looking a million different ways. Grace creates that space for all of us to fit together, looking nothing alike.