Dear Friend without a Baby, (An Open Letter to My Friends Before Motherhood)

Dear Friend without a Baby,

Hey. Remember me? I’m your friend from childhood, or high school, or college, or maybe even work. We used to do all sorts of things together. Maybe we used to stay up late and have sleepovers. Maybe we passed secret origami-style-folded notes in school about the cutest guys. Maybe we clipped coupons on our dorm-room floor so we could afford a midnight ice-cream run. Maybe we were roommates and stayed up late watching hours of episodes on Netflix. Maybe we stayed late after work, gossiping about that one co-worker who nobody even likes anyways. Yeah…you remember me.

Well…I’m still here.

But my life looks a whole lot different now. I still stay up late….but it’s with a colicky baby who requires the exact right combination of swaddling, shushing, side-sleeping, swinging and pacifier sucking (I wouldn’t expect you to understand…but trust me…it’s a thing).

I don’t pass secret origami-style-folded notes anymore…but I do post desperate pleas on Secret Facebook Mom Groups asking them to convince me that it’s okay that I didn’t wash my breast-pumping parts well enough and that as a result, my baby ingested mold (I wouldn’t expect you to understand…but trust me…it’s a thing).

I’m not clipping coupons on a dorm room floor anymore…but I am at the checkout counter at 10:00 at night, desperately trying to scroll through my email inbox for a coupon for diapers, because my baby has just had a diaper blowout and we have one diaper left in the house (I wouldn’t expect you to understand…but trust me…it’s a thing).

I’m not watching hours of Netflix anymore…but I am watching that tiny little screen on the baby monitor, as my baby screams his head off and I try to decide whether to go into his room for the 15th time tonight or let him cry-it-out. (I wouldn’t expect you to understand…but trust me…it’s a thing).

I’m not staying late after work anymore to gossip…and actually…In fact, I’m not even joining you for lunch anymore. I’m sitting crouched behind my desk on a cold floor, hooked up to my breast pump, while I catch up on all the gossip through social media, scrolling aimlessly while eating a cold turkey sandwich, feeling so very lonely (I wouldn’t expect you to understand…but trust me…it’s a thing).

I really tried hard not to end up like this.

I promise you that I had every intention of staying “cool.” I thought for sure that I would never be one of those high-strung parents who makes sure they’re home before bed time. I was convinced my baby would be able to sleep anywhere, and would be happy to be toted around at my every whim. But it turns out that babies need schedules, and my particular baby will only sleep after we have done our very specific bedtime routine (which lucky for us includes “the clean diaper dance”…sounds fun doesn’t it?)

I’m sorry that I don’t reach out more.

I want to hear about your life, and know everything that is going on for you…I really do. But, I’ve sang “Five Little Monkeys” one hundred thirty four times today, and my brain is fried. I think about you during the day, and I say a prayer that you are doing well. I hope you can feel my thoughts with you, even if I don’t tell you that you’re on my mind.

I want so desperately for you to invite me out, or to invite yourself over.

I’d say yes to either! But…I forget that I have the capability to invite others to do things, because I’m so busy trying to keep my baby’s tongue off of our rusty, metal vent. (If you do come over, please excuse the pile of unwashed dishes in my sink, and the complete mess that my house is …and if you can, try to act like it’s normal that I asked you to take off your shoes at the front door, even though my floors haven’t been mopped in like two months and you can see the layer of filth from the next room over).

I’m sorry that I’m socially awkward when we do finally get the chance to hang out.

I’m sorry that when we were eating dinner, I explained to you that when you change a baby boy’s diaper, you have to aim his penis down or he’ll pee out of his diaper. I know now that that was weird…but when I discovered that for the first time…it was like a light-bulb moment for me, and for a second, I forgot that it’s not appropriate to talk about things like that at the dinner table.

Dear friend without a baby, I know that I’m probably your least-fun friend to be around right now…but I still need you. I’m lonely. I need you to pull me out of this black hole of diapers, dirty laundry, and dinners that consist of a single York Peppermint Patty that I found in the couch cushion. I need you to pull the weight that I can’t right now. I need you to be patient with me, to listen to me, to laugh with me, and to remind me how to not be socially-awkward in public.

In return, I promise that when it’s your turn to have a baby, that I’ll be there for you….and I’ll gently remind you that it’s not socially appropriate to talk about optimal-baby-genital-angles-to-avoid-leaky-diapers at the dinner table (or maybe not…maybe I’ll let you tell me all about it… because I promise, when you discover that for yourself in a few years, your mind will be blown, and I’ll be so very happy for you!)

I love you, dear friend.

Love,

A Mama with a Baby