In this hot election year, it's too tempting not to draw comparisons between the political epic being played out on the national stage and the small mini-dramas that illustrate the everyday woman's participation in never-ending primaries held in our personal lives.

We stump on platforms that determine our own credibility, who will be our allies, who is best prepared to answer a phone at 3:00 a.m. and who is most popular. I know, I've been campaigning for six years against a legion of opponents. Some identifiable and some more esoteric.

For starters, I think the most formidable foes in a mother's life are the four or five other women who are the parents of your kid's friends. You know the cast: mostly they aren't people you'd choose to be friends with, but your child loves their child, so you find yourself suddenly engaged in a conversation about the weather with a girl who you either loathed, ignored or admired in high school. Maybe you can look beyond little Jane's mom's belly shirt and ubiquitous Camels, but you just cannot stomach the country music blaring out of her trailer. I know: I sound like a snob, but it works the other way too. It's really weird when your child has a rich friend. Think about it. You go to a dinner party at someone's expansive, built-in pool bedazzled pad and it might inspire you to greatness, or at most stoke some private envy.

When your daughter goes to the same mansion, you must face your own shortcomings point blank. "Why does Jane's mom have a closet that is bigger than your bedroom?" "How come Jane's daddy's car is shiny, and ours has a big dent in it." You sigh and swear that material things don't matter and you reiterate that mommy and daddy have a smaller house and less shiny things because we are around to love and kiss and laugh together much more and that is more important than work and that's all Jane's parents must do to afford all of those things. Hopefully your child doesn't reply that her parents actually don't work, but have a real wealthy grandma. Then you'd be cornered into bitching about lineage and American aristocracy and the unfairness of your family tree.

Then there are the mean mommies who just don't like you. Unlike high school or college, you can't really pout about your lack of Valentines. At best you hope that you aren't judged as harshly as you judge others, which just isn't going to happen. When I moved into my new neighborhood, I'd quickly befriended the Brownie leaders of my twin's troop. We went out a few times for drinks and had them over for dinner, and our children played together. Then suddenly about five months later, they stopped speaking to me. Our daughters continue to hang out at school, and I am frequently asked if Emily can come over, but my requests for a play date go ignored. It's very strange. It's probably how Hillary felt after Iowa.

It's hard to explain the complexity and precarious nature of adult relationships. Childhood buddies or college roommates are one thing, but being the new girl on the block has had particular challenges. I do feel like I am running for office and try to present my resume and values as clearly as possible to the neighborhood electorate. At the end of the day, I have enough friends and I like myself, but the problem is, that I have to like people I don't like for the sake of my children. I don't need anyone to like me, I just need them to play by that unspoken adult rule that thrusts hippies and Republicans in the same room while their children play together. We do it for them.

Seems that not everyone plays by those rules since I cannot get a call back from those Brownie ladies.