I want to carry a card that says I am no longer allowed to share my birth story especially when I am around people who love to share their own. Granted, I am not against other people telling their very unique tales of birthing beautiful babies, but I am done. I am done.
Couldn’t I have one of those punch cards you get that give you a free cup of coffee on your 10th purchase, but only this one will say, “Hey Mona? Is this the tenth time you’ve told people that your mother insisted on counting during your contractions only she wasn’t in synch? Guess what? You are out of turns for this vaginal yarn!” I almost wrote vayarn just now and that just sounds like a bad babywearing product. Like, “I love my vayarn, but geez, I can’t walk with my baby up in my lady business!”
Like Izzymom, I want to date other mothers, too, but I need to find my own tribe. Often times, the only thing I have in common with other mothers I meet is that we gave birth. And that’s where the similarities end. Of course, we made babies the same way, but no one talks about those fun times or the “honey, I’m watching the game,” position.
I need a mother who still has stories about debauchery and no-gag reflex victories and geez, would they get off Britney’s back already? I want a mother who’ll say, “Mona, let’s meet at the park. I’ll bring the flask.” I want to confess dark tales and not feel like later on, it will be replayed to her husband with an added, “Can you believe what’s happening to Mona? I am SOOO happy we are not that [insert my self-induced crisis here]! High-five for us!”
I want to say, “Nathan spent the entire evening spinning around in circles. He was turning left the whole time!” I don’t want to hear, “Wow, that’s great, Mona. I wish I had more time to talk, but I just bought these Latin flash cards, so uhh, good luck with that spinning around thing Nathan does.”
Why does it feel like sixth grade all over again? Only now, the stakes are higher. Instead of our friendships hinging on whether or not I returned the Lisa Frank stickers, I am dismissed because I haven’t introduced Nathan to Gymboree. And are you kidding me with that price? There’s a park down the street and that’s Gymbo-free.
How did it get so difficult to find an ideal mom buddy, someone who’d say, “Mona? You’ve had a hard day at work? There, there now. Here’s a tequila shooter to make it better.”