I made my first mom friend at six weeks postpartum. I was pushing our son in his brand-new stroller not yet stained by sunscreen or covered in cracker crumbs. My husband spotted her first, gesturing to a woman who looked my age pushing a similarly unblemished stroller with the same bleary-eyed look.
“Go talk to her,” he encouraged, sensing what I was too tired to realize at the time, which was how badly I needed a friend who understood what I was going through.
We hit it off immediately and discovered we lived just seven doors away from each other. For the rest of that summer, we went on daily walks for coffee, during which one of our babies was usually screaming. We took turns hosting one another for our afternoon cup of coffee, laying our babies on the same blanket as they stared up at dangling animals under a baby gym and then flipping them over for tummy time.
I returned to work first, and she held my hand the evening before as I teared up and wondered how I would possibly be able to shuffle my son between my mother and sister and find time to pump. It was her turn a few weeks later, and my turn to tell her it would be okay.
We watched our babies learn to roll, sit up, and walk together. We texted each other during 2 a.m. nursing sessions, comforted by the fact that someone else just a few doors away was awake. We lamented about sleep regressions and shared tips for getting them to sleep through the night. We shared recipes for making baby food and decided to buy it instead. We ate a lot of cheese. We couldn’t wait to stop nursing and cried when we finally did. We bought a water table to use in our shared courtyard and watched our toddlers delight in splashing each other.
I moved away first. My husband and I knew we wanted to try for another baby, but our postage stamp size second bedroom could barely fit one crib, let alone two. I would miss the playground across the street and the tree-lined park down the block. Most of all, I would miss my mom friend.
She embraced me and told me it would be okay. She came over to our new home and helped put together the dining room table while the kids stomped on bubble wrap, their squeals of laughter echoing through the empty house. One of the chairs has always been a bit wobbly, and I think of her every time I sit in it. A few months later, it was her turn to leave the comforts of the first home her little family had known, and I told her it would be okay.
Nine years after our first meeting, we live an hour apart but keep in touch, and my mom village has grown. My high school and college friends now have kids of their own, and I have met many other moms through my children’s school. I have a mom friend I text when our kids are sick yet again, another who I trade organizing ideas with, a friend to ask for homework when my son forgets to copy it down, and another I walk with and sit next to at soccer games. I even have a mom friend for exchanging plant clippings and cat selfies.
We trust each other with our deepest hopes, fears, and doubts. We have formed a bond we could not have achieved in any other time and place other than the one we currently inhabit: this messy, sometimes scary, joyful yet overwhelming space of motherhood.
I received a multitude of warnings when I was pregnant: you will be tired for 18 years, it goes too fast, it will be like wearing your heart outside of your body. No one prepared me for how lonely motherhood could be. The first weeks of my son’s life were isolating. We endured long stretches of time while my husband was at work, punctuated by visitors that steadily decreased in number as the weeks wore on. It was difficult to relate to people who weren’t mothers. I felt like a new person but missed the one I used to be—before my identity had become entwined with this tiny human who I had suddenly and fiercely come to love above all else.
Those feelings of loneliness faded as soon as I saw the other tired mom in the park, and I am fortunate to have so many good friends to turn to when I find them slowly creeping back on hard days. It just takes a walk, a cup of coffee together, or a silly selfie to remind me I am not alone. Right now, we are fully entrenched in motherhood, but we are forever friends, forged by the privilege of raising children together. I love my family and am so grateful to watch them learn and grow, but I must admit that one of the best parts of being a mom is getting to have mom friends. Thank you to each and every one.
by Amanda Nelson 
by Christina Crawford 
