POSTCARDS FROM THE EDGE—OF PARENTHOOD
THE FAMILY GROOVE’S RESIDENT MOM-ENTATOR,
SASHA
BROWN-WORSHAM,
REPORTS ON THE
MADNESS OF MOTHERHOOD
Childless Friends
A couple of months ago, my husband and I went over to one of my
closest friend’s house to celebrate her birthday. Her husband had
bought Rock Band and we wanted to spend a rainy Sunday perfecting
our skills, drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon and eating chocolate cake for lunch.
It was just like our pre-children days—minus the screaming, cat-terrorizing toddler and drooling infant in the room.
It was hard to rock and corral our daughter at the same time. She wanted the drumsticks, she wanted her daddy’s attention, she wanted the cake. Her brother wanted to nurse, wanted to be held and pooped no fewer than three times. Sometimes—like on Halloween or when trapped in a Chuck E. Cheese—children belong and make things more fun, but other times they can really cramp your style.
That afternoon, as we walked out to our car, secure in the knowledge that we had just influenced our friends not to procreate for at least two more years, we strapped our two children into our Volvo and stared back at their house, through their windows. They were laughing, cleaning up the mess and putting in a DVD. They were still living in a country we left two years ago.
But instead of being jealous, I was grateful. I may not have seen Tina Fey take on Sarah Palin until a week after the fact or heard the song “Low” until it was on
Tropic Thunder, but they had. I may not be hip, but I am only one degree of Kevin Bacon removed, which, as a parent, is sometimes the best I can hope for.
Children mean no more lazy Sundays at the pub. A rainy Saturday is not an excuse to see a triple feature and eat our weight in popcorn. This is a life that takes some getting used to, and sometimes I am jealous of the friends who have not yet made the leap, who are not diapering two bums 12 times a day. These are the friends who might mistake that blue syringe nose-sucking bulb for a funky kitchen item or a bizarre Thai sex toy. They remind me of the absurd and keep me in check.
They also buy great birthday gifts, like books about farm animal rock bands and super-stylish clothing. Who knew that polka dots were making such a comeback?
Before I had children, I worried about my friendships. Since my husband and I were young when we married and young(ish) when we had children, few of our friends were already parents. I felt alone in the early months of my pregnancy and wondered if it would always be that way.
My best friend is childless, and I remember her sadness when I first announced that I was with child. “Things will not be the same,” she said. As I assured her that I would be the same (slightly plumper) person who e-mailed her 25 times a day, I wondered if I was lying.
I had no way of knowing just how important her friendship would become to me or how the four new moms’ groups I joined would fill my life with new people with whom I bonded with over our shared experience but who wouldn’t become the kind of friends I had before.
Like any life change, parenthood requires new friendships. I need fellow moms to tell me that things are normal with my two kids. When my kid vomits split pea soup late at night, I am more likely to call a fellow mother than my club-hopping single gal pal, even if she is intimately acquainted with regurgitation. But when I want to talk about Obama or Nicole Richie, that party gal is exactly the person I am going to call.
Perhaps I just have yet to make the kind of mom friend with whom I can discuss Perez Hilton, the Iraq War, what constitutes cheating and which brand of diaper performs the best. But for now, I am content to keep my friends in these two groups—those who have pint-sized responsibilities and those who don’t. And I prefer those who don’t.
Because let’s face it: Only our own kids are really interesting. They smell like fresh bread from the oven, give great hugs and only poop once or twice a day after about 8 months. But there are only so many times I can have the same conversation with mothers from the park—“How old is your son?”; “Wow, he’s big for his age!”; “Does he sleep through the night?”—before it gets a little tired. And while I am on my way to finding some mom friends with whom I can make more than small talk, it is still my childless friends who take the chocolate cake on a Sunday when it comes to conversation.
They ask how my kids are, but they don’t obsess. They want to talk about the latest books they have read, pies they have baked, sweaters they have knitted and the candidates they have supported. And for me, this is the best part of my childless friends—they don’t have children.
They never tell me long-winded stories about Timmy fitting in at daycare or ask whether Sam (my daughter) is potty-training herself. I never have to feel competitive or compare myself, because my childless friends are more worried about high-thread-count bedding than big-kid beds and avoiding crib falls. That sense of competition that pervades all conversations with fellow mothers—“What preschool did Leslie get into?”; “How many teeth does your child have? Mine has 25”—is totally eliminated among the childless. It is so freeing.
I never have to worry about being honest with my childless friends. Parenthood can be mind-numbing, but say that to a fellow parent and you risk being ostracized or worse—you become infamous. “Sasha doesn’t really like her daughter,” they might whisper in hushed tones at their next mommy meeting. “Maybe that is why her daughter hits.”
My childless friends judge my parenting skills less. They don’t blink when I “forget” to wipe the crust off my daughter’s nostrils because I don’t feel like hearing her scream, or when I give her a piece of Halloween candy just after breakfast. “You are the coolest mom ever,” my child-free pal told me after I gave my daughter a handful of Junior Mints alongside her scrambled eggs. My mom friends might not be so forgiving.
Those unencumbered by knee-highs are also a bit like Switzerland when it comes to the mommy wars. I never have to worry about offending anyone when I rail against stay-at-home motherhood or mothers who return to work after three weeks. All opinions are welcomed and discussed and no topic is taboo.
With my childless friends, I am the expert, and for someone as insecure as I am, this suits me just fine. I can tell my funny stories about my kids without worrying that I am bragging or not asking them enough questions.
This is not to say that my fellow mothers are not great companions at the Children’s Museum or park, where my childless friends tend to glaze over. Both friends have their places. But I have never appreciated my childless friends more than I do now.
Their freedom reminds me that I used to have it, too; their interests keep mine alive. In the two years since I became a mama, I have made many new, interesting friends, but my old ties are just as strong. I may have less time for some things, but I have never appreciated my friendships more.
“I worry you will not be interested in my life anymore,” my friend told me as I neared the end of my first pregnancy.
But I can assure her that even sleep-deprived, stressed and nursing, I want to hear about her dates, her promotions and her nightlife, which is blessedly free of midnight diapering and arguments over who got the baby last. Sure, I am jealous, but I try to listen without drooling too much because, although I’ve recently emigrated away from the old country, I still have my passport and plan to keep on visiting.
Sasha Brown-Worsham is a mother and freelance writer who lives in Boston, where she writes and tries to keep her children alive and well fed.
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