How Joining a Mom’s Group Saved My Sanity

I’ve never been an icebreaker kind of a person. I toe the line between social and anti, equal parts Homecoming Queen and homebody. I throw myself into social situations and immediately regret doing so wishing I was at home in my comfies on my couch. Then, when on said couch, I often feel like I should have accepted the invitation, shouldn’t have rescheduled, should’ve gotten my lazy butt in the shower and made some effort. (I’ve never claimed to be sane.)

Three years ago, I’d just settled into a new city and job, lamented about how hard it was to make friends, made tons and abruptly left to move back to an old city but new territory: Motherhood.

Thankfully, much like I guessed, it was easier to find friends with a little one in tow. It just took a bit of trial and error, which is ironic as that’s what I’m finding parenthood to be all about.  (This swaddle? Which sippy cup? What finger food? Is it teething? A cold?)

Upon moving back to NYC, friends with older kids encouraged me to join a mom’s group. I shuddered at the thought but reluctantly signed myself up and then promptly erased every email that came in. I’m not sure what I was afraid of.

Two days post delivery, when I was struggling the most, I met a woman in the pediatrician’s office with a daughter a year older than my own. She told me about the neighborhood group and urged me to join. That night, I did so.

I clung to my husband for the next two weeks he was on paternity leave in a co-dependent way I’ve never known. When he went back to work, at his prompting, I RSVP’d to a mom’s meeting.

It took me a good hour to get out of the house. Late, unseasonably dressed (My wardrobe options were limited at that point!) in a wool shirt and maternity jeans while my baby was in a bodysuit, I ran there, arriving fifteen minutes late, sweaty and frazzled. The restaurant was empty. I was the only one who showed. Exhausted, overwhelmed and irritated that all that effort was for nothing, I caught my breath, cooled down and texted my husband.

Ten minutes later, as I was leaving, a woman walked in sans baby, cautiously looking around, sizing me up, in blind date fashion. That can’t be one of them, I thought. Who comes to a baby group without a baby? It turned out, she did.

It got weirder from there.

After a half-dozen or so trickled in over the next half-hour (I’ve now learned mom’s meetings never start on time.) and we were seated, they began talking about their night nurses and nannies, acting astonished when I said I had neither.

When I inquired as to whether their child was sleeping well, how much they were eating, when they were feeding, they said they’d have to ask their caretaker. One even called hers to confer. Another, to come and relieve her of her offspring.

How were we supposed to bond when living separate lives? Wasn’t the point of making friends with moms of kids the same ages that you go through it together? Commiserate, bond, give advice, drink.

When the conversation turned to how they wouldn’t let their nanny use their designer diaper bag, I was out. They’d let them have their first-born but not their Fendi?

I paid $30 for a yogurt parfait that arrived twenty minutes too late, I barely ate and ended up on my daughter’s head while trying to rock her and spoon into my mouth. She had a massive blowout in the bathroom, which was the first time I’d changed her in public and was screaming her head off. I wanted to cry too. I was so overwhelmed. It took everything I had, which was not much, to even get there not to mention put myself out there and these were not my people. This was not my place.

I spent the next two weeks licking my wounds and healing my body.

At the further encouragement of my husband, I tried once more with the mom’s group. This time, I opted for a walk. No overpriced oatmeal, no confined spaces or pretentious conversation. I chose fresh air, exercise and distraction, something to do other than stare at vacant and vapid faces.

The only problem? I was Out. Of. Shape. I arrived for a stroll. We went for a voyage. Two hours later, I was burnt, blistered and winded, but feeling better than I had in weeks. I’d found my girls. These women were tough, hardcore, knowledgeable, honest, funny… They were mothers.

They knew when their babies were eating and weren’t, what they liked and didn’t and how often they slept. They knew their children. They might not have had all the answers but they were trying and struggling and surviving just like me.

I met them the next day and the next. As we fought off the pounds and pushed through the fatigue, we bonded.

We’ve walked through 100-degree, sweltering heat and 20-degree frost bite. Snow, rain, breastfeeding struggles, family tragedies, colds, flus and fallen-down and fussy children.

And, along the way, we became a tribe. Their companionship has meant the difference between being a mentally healthy mother and one that talks to walls. Padded ones. In a cell.

So, I’ve found that making friends post-children is easier. You just have to make the effort and keep putting yourself out there. Find something you like to do, sign up and show up. Above all, stay true to yourself. Whether it’s Prada or Pampers that’s your thing, get out there. And, good luck!