I Cheated On My Mom BFF And I Don’t Regret It

Mom-friends-park-kidsI first met Kate when I was single in a new town and she was months away from her wedding. It was instant envy from go. Kate is sharp and savvy. A woman who spends time in Paris. A woman who is well-versed in restaurants and art sales. She’s a writer on a show you’ve totally heard of (and may even love, as most of the modern world does). She wears a lot of black, and reminds me of what Daria probably grew up to be.

I like Kate because she’s smart and funny, and I like being around funny, smart women.  She is self-deprecating yet sincere, and her level of humor is such that she brings out the very best in you as you try to match and relate. We shared mutual friends but never set out to strike a friendship of our own. No reason, really, until we found ourselves the only ones in our respective social circles knocked up.

I announced my pregnancy promptly at 13 weeks with an adorable photo of my husband and I looking pleased with ourselves. I clogged my social networks with images of my evolving bump and comical, CATHY cartoon-like musings on being with child. Kate waited until she was 25 weeks, when she could no longer hide it. I was shocked. How did she not tell anyone? Who had that level of restraint? Again, instant envy.

I didn’t know anyone else who was pregnant, so when I learned she was due a mere two weeks after me, I reached out. She reached back. Thus began our friendship.

Our pregnancies were polar opposites. Kate’s sucked, while mine was awesome. I felt like a round goddess. Kate felt like Violet Beauregarde. I knew better than to gloat about my lovely gestation, but when she’d lament over texts, I didn’t know how to truthfully respond. I couldn’t relate.

I had my kid first. Kate followed. I had a simple slice-and-stitch C-section. Kate had hours of labor hell that manifested into an emergency C. All of her inhibitions, her concerns, her negativity fell to the wayside once she held her child in her arms. It was instant love.

We were two ladies with two babes who slept in two-hour stints. I realized, very quickly, that I’d spent the whole pregnancy reading about labor and delivery and hadn’t bother to read anything about what to do once the babe was out. Our text messages evolved from pregnancy complaints to suspiciously-worded, hesitantly asked ”Does your kid ”¦” questions, followed by giant sighs of relief once the other responded with an astounding ”OH GOD, YES, YOURS TOO?” We were both in awe of our wee ones, but what struck us both was how hard it was. But I was reluctant to share the good stuff, to share the joy, to share the gushy squishy feelings my babe brought out of me with Kate. We didn’t really have that type of friendship. We had the type where, when the babe exploded out of her diaper and all over me at three in the morning, I knew I could text Kate and I knew she’d be up, grumbling about her own damp experience.

After an eight-week recovery period, I needed out of my house or I was going to go insane. Despite living in the same town, Kate lived on the other side of it. It once took me over an hour to drive the 10-mile trek. She may as well have lived on Mars. I did a little research, and found there was a mommy group in my area.

The thought made me cringe. You say ”mommy group” and I instantly picture a gaggle of judgmental skinny women trying to out-mom each other with their gear, their information, their Pinterest boards, and their pristine children. I couldn’t imagine choosing to spend my time with women like these, but I also needed an excuse to shower. I looked into the eyes of my babe. Did I want my own judgments holding her back? I threw her in a carrier, bit my tongue, and went to the sign-up session at a near-by park.

I didn’t mention the mommy group to Kate. We were very proud of ourselves for striving to not be one of ”those moms,” and now here I was, dipping my toe in their warm wading pool. It was my secret shame.

The meetup was full of toddlers, and even though these kids were maybe a year or two older than my babe, the differences were so significant that their mothers and I really had nothing in common. Infancy was a very distant (sometimes blocked) memory for them. There were no newborns or infants to be found. The babe and I looked around, made some very awkward small talk, and looked for the exit.

That was when I saw Leeann.

My first impression was of light. She was incredibly bright to me after eight weeks of manically caring for an infant. She had long blonde hair thrown up in a casual ponytail, bright blue eyes, and a big smile. Her energy was such that you could feel it, an overwhelmingly positive vibe reverberating across the sandbox. And, like me, she was wearing comfy pants. She held, in her arms, the teensiest of peanuts. Jackpot.

I walked over to her with purpose. Introduced myself and the babe. She told me about her daughter, a mere four weeks younger than my own. I tried to think back to four weeks prior. A blur.

”Is she hard? Is she a tough baby?” I asked.

She shrugged. ”I don’t know. I don’t have anything to compare it to. It just IS.”

The simplicity and honesty of her answer caught me off-guard. It was a gust of wind blowing through an old, shuttered house. It was a new perspective.

I prodded further. ”Aren’t you bored? Aren’t the nights TERRIBLE? Aren’t you TOTALLY OVER wearing soft pants every single day?”

”Actually,” Leeann chuckled, ”I love being able to let it all hang out, you know?”

Then she did something I wasn’t expecting: she gave her daughter a big ole hug.

I did know. I totally knew. I gave my babe a tight squeeze, a knee-jerk reaction to all the light and love I felt radiating from Leeann. We became quick friends. We did a lot of sitting-on-couches, chatting-and-snacking, and it was wonderful. Our babes collectively barfed a ton. We laughed it off, wiping the chunk from our soft pants. My own post-partum fog was lifting.

As I found less and less to complain about, I found myself texting with Kate less and less. I felt like I was cheating on Kate – with Leeann, with embracing the positivity, with actively loving being a mom. Kate had seen me through so much, yet here I was on another woman’s couch, gabbing and laughing like I was in my own General Foods International Coffee commercial. But could I only have one mom friend? Why did I separate Kate and Leeann? Why couldn’t I embrace them both?

I thought about it long and hard one evening, and came up with the answer: I was being dumb. Yin and yang don’t have to oppose. They can also compliment. Having both Kate and Leeann in my life gave me the thing I’d been craving all along: balance. My own insecurity separated the two and kept me divided as well.

Kate moved back to New York and started writing for her show again. Leeann’s maternity leave came to an end. The babe and I were on our own. My life lesson learned, I sought out and found a mommy group for infants. There, I met some really rad women who have become dear friends. I fess up to the good times and the bad with them, and they get it because they are living it. It’s less judgment and more support, and I feel a bit like a jerk for having assumed otherwise. Because motherhood is all about the large, nuanced spectrum. It’s about the stunningly wide range of emotion felt in any given week, day, hour, minute. Motherhood is about focusing on the growth: not just of our children, but of ourselves as well. And thankfully, there’s safety in numbers.

(Photo: Shutterstock)

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