I recently saw a friend whom I hadn’t seen in many years. She used to be my best friend and roommate, but life and my bad habit of losing touch had allowed us to drift apart. In the years since we’ve last spoken, we both have gotten married, I’ve had two kids, and now she’s pregnant with her first. When I was in her area, we got together and had breakfast with my family. The night before I was so nervous, because I realized I had nothing to talk about except my kids. I had no idea what else her and I had in common anymore. I feared to ask her the same dull, asinine questions that everyone asks pregnant women.
“How are feeling?”
“Are you nervous?”
“Have you picked any names?”
I hated having to answer these over and over when I was pregnant, but now I hated that I couldn’t think of anything better to say.
After we said our good-byes and both went about our days, I tried to figure out what exactly I was feeling. I knew some of it was shame from having let our friendship grow apart for so long. But I also started to feel ashamed of having nothing else more interesting than my “mom life” to talk about.
Much of what makes being a mom bearable is routine. But routine is boring. Routine is the opposite of the spontaneous fun her and I had in college. Routine does not make for good chit chat. Other moms understand that and don’t mind talking about those things, which is probably why there are so many mommy-bloggers. We flock to social media and online journals to reach a hand out to the universe, to see who grabs on. We seek company for our misery. We look for someone who will get the joke.
I started to wonder what made me reach out to my friend again, after all these years. What had compelled me to risk the awkwardness of the interaction? Perhaps it was my desire to rekindle the silliness and the belly-aching laughter that characterized our friendship in college. But more so it was the knowledge that she was about to become a mom, and I needed to let her know I was there for her, ready to help in any small way I can.
Being a mom can be incredibly lonely. I used to wonder why my “mom friends” (i.e. friends on Facebook who had kids) always posted such stupid shit on social media all the time. Even if we exclude the infinite baby photos, I was baffled by the quiz results, chain posts, article reposts, and quote memes about coffee and sweat pants. I didn’t get it. Like, why are you posting online 12 times a day? Why are your photos always blurry? Who cares which Game of Thrones character you are “IRL”? And most of all, who are the people liking these posts? Well, probably other moms who are, whether they realize it or not, incredibly lonely.
Being a mom is isolating, especially in the early weeks and months. The advent of social media has given moms an outlet to connect with one another, but as with most things, its effect is paradoxical. By opening up a world of communication in my hand, it has only seemed to highlight how lonely I really am. I am now both more and less reluctant to reach out to friends. I find myself torn between wanting to see my childless friends, but realizing all I have to talk about is my kids, and wanting to talk to other moms who “get it,” but realizing I’m so fucking tired of talking about my kids all the time.
It doesn’t help that, as a society, we have generally agreed that mom life on social media should be just a small sliver of reality. Happy smiling babies, hilarious toddler shenanigans, the occasional make-up free selfie just to show that you’re real (#freshface #momlife #sendcoffee).
And there’s nothing wrong with that. I post that shit all. the. time. But as I wait for the likes to roll in on my newest post, I have to acknowledge that I’m reaching out, looking for those friends, near and far to say, “I see you, mama.” As I sit at home, alone, save for my infant, I’m looking to hear, “I’m with you, every step of the way.” As I exchange knowing nods with another nursing mom, as we both sit alone on separate park benches, we both really want to say, “Keep it up.”
I feel lonely in my role as mom, and I guess that’s appropriate. I am, after all, my kids’ only mom. The only one they will ever have. And no matter how big my village is, I know the buck stops with me. It’s a lot of pressure and it’s lonely and sometimes it fucking sucks. And for now, I don’t have a solution, but I can say to any other mom out there, feeling the same way:
I see you, mama.
I’m with you, every step of the way.
Keep it up.
