What it Means to Join the "The Moms Club"
If you have a child-size hole in your heart due to infertility or adoption fall-through or not having found a partner to reproduce with, make sure you actually want to read this post before you do. I would never want you to feel excluded, because you’re not. You are highly valid and valued friends. We love you, see you, need you, and want you in our lives. Please know this post does not intend to alienate or depreciate.
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“So excited for you to join the Moms Club!” rang in my ears over and over when I was pregnant with my first baby. I thought it was just a silly congratulatory platitude, marking my entrance into a relatively common and expected experience. Miraculous—undoubtedly, but generationally customary nonetheless.
Then I gave birth. No one really knows when someone’s giving birth. They see pregnant pictures on social media, or viral pregnant dance videos if you’re Allison Holker and Twitch. And BOOM! One day a photo pops up on your feed of the new baby. Were you eating a sandwich while she was pushing it out? Watching Top Chef? The life-changing hours in someone else’s life are completely insignificant in our own.
Except they’re not. Not to this secret, underground, unexpected tribe of other moms who somehow become lifelines during the most transformative phenomenon in your existence.
In the days leading up to labor, I started getting a few messages on Instagram from women I considered mere acquaintances, and texts from my real-life friends who were young moms. Everyone who began reaching out had kids under the age of two, freshly aware of what it means to be suddenly thrust into this insane world of motherhood (that I comprehended nearly 0% before entering). They asked how I was feeling, and genuinely wanted to know the answer. They prepped me with excitement and community and solidarity.
When the day came that liquid suddenly gushed out of my lady area, really reminding you that this whole ordeal is a physical experience completely out of your control, I texted a few friends to let them know labor had begun. I even let a few acquaintances-who-care in on things, because something told me they should know. My water broke, Aaron and I are heading to the hospital, say prayers!
On the 30-minute drive to our practice, my good friend called. She’d recently given sudden and accidental birth on her bathroom floor to her first child, so to say she’s a superhero is an understatement. I honestly wasn’t really open to speaking to anyone in that moment because my contractions had already rendered me unable to speak during each peak, plus my husband is just about the only person on earth who doesn’t heighten my stress during tense experiences. But when I saw her name pop up, it felt right. I wanted to hear her voice, and also needed some support from a source whom I associated with calm and wisdom. (My sweet, sweet husband was a deer-in-headlights just trying not to crash the car as he sped toward his life’s upheaval.)
This friend gave me reassurance and confidence as we approached the hospital. She reminded me of my strength, promised me a positive outcome, and walked me through steady breathing. It was the first true manifestation of this whole “Moms Club” thing.
As I labored, I occasionally looked at my phone since the epidural allowed me to function pretty normally. #blessit. Throughout the night—probably because they were up nursing little ones themselves—I got texts and Instagram messages from this unexpected clan of acquaintance and real-friend moms that had magically assembled in the days prior. While the rest of the world would wake up to find a picture of our little boy on Christmas Eve morning, these women wouldn’t be surprised. They were there the whole time, giving me encouragement and easing my fears.
Our sweet son arrived 7 hours later at 4:39 a.m., and I began sharing the good news. I’m not one to keep things to myself. (I mean, hi, I have a blog.) Congratulatory texts flooded in. Once things were on social media, likes and comments blew up my phone. People seemed genuinely happy for our new addition, this new life entrusted to our very unqualified care.
But let me tell you, it was the Moms Club that became my lifeline. They private messaged me and sent texts that got to gritty. How are you sleeping? Is nursing going alright? Your nipples still intact? I’ve been praying for your anxiety. I know how scary all of this is. Have you tried witch hazel? Take your laxatives!! If you fold down the diaper at the top, he won’t pee through it as easily. I’m sure you’re up with him right now at 1 a.m., so just wanted to let you know you’re doing great.
This group of women included a girl I did one pageant with six years earlier. The wife of an old boyfriend’s best friend. A college sorority sister I’d barely spoken to in seven years. Mixed in, of course, were my closest friends who’d already had children. All of a sudden they were illuminated, our bond and camaraderie completely unified. They revealed to me their struggles that I never before could’ve comprehended before I joined their ranks. These women who I considered dear friends became brand new to me. And the ones I barely knew suddenly morphed into fellow warriors on the frontline.
This sisterhood has only expanded in the 22 months since Anders was born. Some of the aforementioned acquaintances/warriors and I don’t talk like we did during those first few days of his life, but I’ll always think of them as my birth-time angels. When they like my photos or I respond to something in their Instagram stories, I know there’s an underlying bond. They welcomed me into this new, difficult, wild segment of my life, not because they had to, but because they understood the gravity.
My close friends with kids are still my helpmates, kindred spirits, and confidants. Few words are necessary as we speak the language of moms, completely understanding every experience, passing no judgment, and providing laughter amidst chaos. We exchange advice and articles and frustrations, laying bare the often complex and contradictory feelings that accompany motherhood. They make me feel sane, supported, validated, and fiercely loved. I have non-parent friends who I treasure more than words, that’s for sure. But when you learn what it feels like to have a child rip your heart out and toddle around the world with it in their hands-- that kind of vulnerability can only be understood by another mom. It is debilitating and frightening and beautiful and breathtaking. This sisterhood is required for emotional (and physical) survival.
My mom circle expands all the time. Through each new stage of my son’s life I share online, I get new messages from moms who turn from acquaintances into “she gets it” friends. We talk about sleep woes, body woes, anxiety woes, cuteness explosions, love bursts, hopes and dreams…all of it. Because we can. We understand.
My tangible circle of friends here in Alaska developed in the last three months in large part due to the simple fact that I’m a mom. It’s like other moms see a new one and immediately pull you in. You’re a mom? Awesome. Get in the boat. I was literally walking around Safeway one day when a woman gave me her business card and said, “Hey, sorry if this is weird, but I see you have a toddler and I’m starting a Bible story time on Tuesday mornings. Would love to have you.” So I texted her the next day, and I went. From that, I’ve made multiple new mom friends that have turned into wine nights and play dates. At church, we joined a family group full of fellow parents with young kids, and those moms, too, are quickly becoming staples in my life.
When we flew to Seattle for an ultrasound, one of them reached out unprompted to ask if she could send her teenager over to our house to watch the dog and give the house a full cleaning while we were gone. WHAT?! Yes, please! These women are waiting with open arms to help with Anders if called upon when I go into labor. They text me pictures of double-strollers available on Ketchikan SaleCycle, invite us over for Thanksgiving dinner, and ask if I’ll be at toddler gymnastics this week.
The Moms Club is real. It’s life-giving, life-saving, and a stunning reminder that women are better when we band together. Having children changed my life because the love I feel for these little humans shifted my entire worldview (and schedule), yes. But having children also changed my life because of this extraordinary group of women who fully understand such an intimate part of my soul.
Moms Club, I love you. Those maternity leggings look so cute on you. Let’s have some wine and try to get the Wiggles theme song out of our heads. Thank you for being my sounding boards, advisors, cheerleaders, and colleagues of life.