Be my mom friend?
Be my mom friend?
Playground politics and a vulnerable admission that I crave connection!
It’s been a gorgeous couple of days here in New York; we’re all thawing out a bit. I’ve been bringing my son to the playground a lot, and it’s been mobbed. We live around the corner from a great park, and it’s quite idyllic on these warm spring days: the air is ripe with bubbles, little kids play adorably disorganized soccer, gleeful squeals abound, and older kids play pickup games of basketball. Charlie’s still pretty small for most of the playground equipment, but that doesn’t stop him from walking around and staring at people. You can tell it freaks some of the kids out, but what are ya gonna do.
Since the park has filled out, I’ve noticed a cool crew of parents emerge. You can just tell they’re cool. Playground hierarchy extends beyond the children. Obviously, I yearn to be folded into their pack. They drink iced coffee and vaguely ignore their children; they dress comfortably but seem to have a sense of style beyond the requisite athleisure. Mostly, they seem cool because they know each other well enough to have lightly gossipy conversation while their kids shriek and tumble some energy away. They get to speak with other adults in adult voices, voices that wouldn’t be described as sing-songy. I could take the approach my 15-month-old does and walk up to their circle’s periphery and stare at them curiously until somebody says something, but I have a feeling that isn’t the right way to ingratiate myself.
I have always had friends; it has never been overly difficult for me to make and keep them. I have a pretty good sense of humor, I’m not frighteningly ugly, and I’m generally nice. But not too nice where it’s like – give me a lil’ something here. I’m the right level of nice, i.e., I’m nice, but I will talk shit when it’s called for. I will not judge you for venting. In fact, I love it. I need it. Tell me about your marital issues, your weird crush, the people you secretly loathe. Lay bare your gremlin self before me.
Having a friend with whom you can be messy and real makes the excruciating dance of life tolerable, enjoyable even! I have collected friends from all walks of life, from every chapter of my being. They know the details of my past, making it impossible for me to scrub my former self in favor of some sort of new me. I can try to be erudite, fancy myself a reader of thick literary tomes, and then I’ll run into a friend from eighth grade who says something like remember when you screamed at the top of your lungs in the hallway when I told you Twilight was a shitty book and you are forced to reckon with this aspect of yourself who, if you’re being real, is still alive and well inside of you. Friends are witnesses to your every iteration, including the unpleasant bits, the icky shameful parts of yourself, who good friends will remind you, aren’t so bad.
Which is why the elusive nature of the mom friend eats at me. I have met a lot of people in town, many of whom are incredibly kind, and in a very similar life stage, and some of them are oozing friend potential. But this is the first time in my life that I have really struggled to take things to that next step. To say something beyond the obligatory small talk, to get deeper than the odious parenting stuff, the yeah he’s 15 months and another on the way. We’ve got our hands full! I am not alone in this – I have family and friends with older kids who reflect on the loneliness of these days and assure me it gets better. Some have advice: go to the kid stuff at the library! Bring him to music class! Join a book club! Others are more realistic and tell me you meet your real friends when your kid gets to kindergarten, which is, let’s see, four years away?
Other friends, who don’t have kids, tell me it will all happen naturally. They say I’ll meet people “out.” But where is out? It’s not like I’m hitting the bars every night. Also, my town has one bar and all of the people inside it are men in their seventies talking about the Yankees and their aching joints. Not that I can’t jibe with that crowd, but you know what I mean. Also, I’m pregnant. Also, my kid is in bed at seven, and after that, you kind of have to stay in the house. One of those annoying things. My life is decidedly in these days. It’s a lot of working through the Survivor backlog. Don’t get me wrong, Jeff Probst is a damn good companion at the end of the night, but it’s more of a parasocial thing. Socializing, mostly, has to happen in the bright light of day while chasing a child around, trying to find common ground with complete strangers you have nothing in common with save for the general exhaustion and tedium of your days.
I think everyone, though, is right. I should go to the kid's stuff at the library and bring him back to music class. (I attended one class where it was two other parents, and the teacher brought me aside after and scolded me for not singing along enough, and that I should really familiarize myself with the music because it makes the class more engaging. I left that day and never returned). I should, and plan to, join a book club. It will also happen naturally and in time. I have brunch scheduled with a mom this weekend and a music class “pop up jam” I’ve registered for (kill me). Friends will come, because I care to have them. I have no interest in living out the rest of my days with no one to complain to.
It is a weird thing – I am never alone, but I am lonely. It’s not like the loneliness of my early twenties, that giant cavernous loneliness that kept me out of my apartment for most hours of the day for fear I’d fall into its clutches and not be able to scrabble my way out. Now, at the playground, even in moments where I feel it nipping at me, I look over and see Charlie, my small pal, exploring the sand pit, and he looks up at me and smiles at the reminder that I am indeed still there before getting back into the serious business of pushing sand around.
I cannot wish time away, wish for things to fast forward, snap myself to my son being in kindergarten where I will apparently be fighting off new friends with a stick. Because I can’t miss these days, either, when he wants to hold my hand in those first moments as we approach the busy playground. Where he puts his head on my shoulder when he’s uncertain, these days where he really likes me, loves me, needs me. One day he’ll probably call me a bitch and slam his door, or at the very least, and much sooner, approach the playground with rambunctious confidence, not needing to wrap his little hand around my finger.
In the meantime, I’ll rely on my childless friends and their gorgeous amounts of free time, some of which they are generous enough to share with me. Tomorrow night, I’m getting dinner and seeing Esther Perel with one of my best friends. We are getting dinner at a French place on the Upper West Side, which Fran Leibowitz apparently frequents. Wouldn’t that be a treat? I plan to eat croque monsieur, dip fries in aioli, and gossip.
OK—that’s enough vulnerability online for the day, the week, and the month. I’ll be back next week using humor as a defense mechanism.