I brought copies of the recipe for these cookies,” our class facilitator shouted above the room’s chatter. Sitting on the plastic exercise mat with Gabi lying in front of me, I looked around at the other women. Each one had her baby in front of her, a matching set of mother and child. My eyes skimmed their faces, and I wondered if any could be a treasured friend, a “bosom friend,” as Anne of Green Gables referred to her Diana.
I wanted a bosom friend. I missed having friends who knew me, women who knew I liked cream in my coffee, that I wore sweaters because I was always cold, that I was allergic to cats. Women with shared histories, experiences, who knew me before I was a mom, knew that I could be witty, that despite my recent wrinkled appearance, I did in actuality know how to iron, and that my Spanish was better than my Italian. That I didn’t have to explain where or how I met my husband because they knew him and loved him too.
Looking around the room, I couldn’t tell if anyone had bosom-friend potential or was even looking for it in the same way I was. We were in a classroom on the maternity floor of Saint Joseph Hospital in Denver. A few months had passed since my postpartum haze, and I was starting to move from a low-level state of desperation to a low-level handle on baby care. The facilitator for this new mom class had two kids, ages two and four, so as far as we were all concerned, she was a certified expert in all things mothering.
“It calls for whole wheat flour and natural sweetener,” she half-yelled above the room’s chatter.
I took a bite of my cookie and thought it was tasty, but an Oreo would be better. I wondered what she’d think if she knew I had a Snickers bar in my purse. A king-sized one.
The moms grabbed copies of the cookie recipe as it was passed around and studied it intensely while nodding their heads in approval. They wanted everyone to know they agreed it looked like the makings of an excellent, nutritious snack that only a mother could whip up. We were all there to get a recipe for successful mothering, and the cookie recipe was the closest we’d received yet, so we took it very seriously.
Every Wednesday morning, this group met for an hour and a half. Because the group was for new mothers with babies up to six months of age, it was fluid with the veterans aging out and newly terrified moms arriving weekly. I don’t suppose it was an accident that the woman who led the group was not only a mom but also a hospital social worker. We were a desperate group of women and only half-jokingly said we needed professional help. Each meeting we’d discuss a topic, like healthy snacks, for half an hour and then move into the part we’d all been waiting for: time to talk to the women on either side of us.
It was like the beginning of recess on a playground; once granted permission for free time, we scrambled to get going and not waste a single second of potential conversation. The questions came out with such speed we forgot to breathe in between.
“Did your baby get her three-month shots yet? Are you going back to work? Are you happy about that? Have you been pumping? What brand of diapers absorbs the best? What brands are on sale at King Soopers this week?” Anything, really, that would be a connection point. That would give us insight into navigating days with a newborn and help us assess if there was a potential friend in the women sitting around us. Anything that would say we were alike, that we weren’t crazy. Anything that would affirm we were doing it right.
I came to the group via the one mommy friend, Jennifer, who’d plopped into my life. The weekend we pulled the moving van into my in-laws’ driveway, Derek and I went to a party in Denver at his friend Brian’s house. Brian had gone to graduate school with Derek in Portland and moved to Denver with his bride, Crystal, a year earlier. I didn’t know them, but I already missed friends back home and figured a party was better than unloading the moving van.
Jennifer and I were both pregnant, sitting on Brian and Crystal’s front porch, appreciating the cool the evening offered. My swollen feet were wedged into my flip-flops, glad to be getting a break from holding up the extra weight my petite frame was carrying. Neither of us knew anyone other than our husbands and the party’s hosts, so we found refuge in each other’s pregnancy war stories. Jen was outgoing—what I needed to make that conversation happen—and funny. It was good to laugh with someone, and at the end of the night when we exchanged phone numbers, I assumed she had a whole slew of girlfriends who took up her allotted friend hours.
But then a few weeks later she called. And I called her back. Just a few conversations as our due dates approached, but they were an unexpected gift. A dating relationship of sorts. It felt nice to be pursued. A few weeks after our babies were born, the frequency of the phone calls increased. It didn’t take long to stop feeling like I didn’t have anyone to call. A social worker as well, Jen began to find resources for us like we were her two neediest clients. She found every puppet show and mommy-and-me swim class in the greater metro area. I hated going to the freezing pool, but I lived for getting out of the house, so I followed along. Where Jen went, I went. Our baby girls, just ten days apart, shared their developmental milestones. Their mommies did too.
Jen found out about the class at Saint Joseph Hospital. Desperately lonely with a completely open schedule, I signed up. Each week I pushed the stroller through the maze of hospital hallways back to the car with an air of disappointment. Jen seemed to be making other friends. I wasn’t jealous of her new friendships, just of the ease with which she made them. She was becoming my dearest companion, but she had a life; she couldn’t be my everything. I knew it was good for everyone if I had more friends, it was just that the effort required seemed forced. I’d always connected with others naturally through things I was already part of—work, church, other friendships. Being new to Denver, I didn’t bring those pre-baby connections with me. The only thing I had in common with these women were babies the same age, and that wasn’t enough. I needed more because I was more.
Each week as I walked back to the parking garage, I thought about my crew back in Portland, imagining what they were doing. As I strapped Gabi into her car seat, I wondered if my introverted nature was getting in the way of making friends. Maybe if I asked more questions, I’d get past the diaper discussions. Despite my disappointment, as soon as I pulled my seat belt strap across my chest, I started counting the days until the next Wednesday, hopeful next week might be the week I made a connection.