The Middle School of Mommyhood

Since becoming a mom I have experienced more feelings that remind me of my middle school days than I have in a very long time. And I don’t mean the passionate, tear gushing crushes or the general rebelliousness I felt against every adult in my life. I mean the need to be accepted by “the group.” I thought this insecurity had been dead and buried along with my Deb hairspray, Sun-In, and Def Leppard tapes, but apparently not. I’ve felt that jealousy over and over again for the past 11 months and am trying to figure out why.

I noticed it the first time when I tried to take Sam to a new mom’s group at the hospital where I had him. I went only twice, mainly because he was so amazingly fussy that it was not worth the effort of the drive, dealing with him for the hour and a half, and the drive home. But there were reasons I felt it was not worth it to me to make it a priority. I felt, for the first time since childhood, like the new kid at school. All the moms already knew each other, which I expected. But I also expected them to talk to me since I was new. And they didn’t. So I tried to be outgoing while holding my cranky baby face down on his belly and jiggling him to keep him satisfied, but I was always the one to initiate the conversation and frankly they just didn’t seem interested. It was like they just didn’t want anymore friends; they were set. And I was left wondering how they had decided before they’d even met me what they didn’t like. Had I not yet lost enough baby weight? Did I seem as tired as I felt? Did I smell? (Seriously, I really smelled that first summer I had him. Something to do with breastfeeding and hormones I think.) I couldn’t believe the things that were going through my head. When was the last time I was seriously concerned over the possibility that I had no friends because of B.O.? Middle School.

My insecurity reared its ugly head every time I walked by another new mom who avoided eye contact and did not say hello. I yelled at them in my head for the rest of the block, “We are both new moms! I can see your baby in your front carrier and I know she’s not much older than Sam. I know you know what I am going through. Can you not even smile an empathetic, exhausted smile? Is it because I have the $30 Snugli instead of the $100 Bjorn?” Amazing. It was like I wanted to go out and get myself that hideously ugly and ridiculously expensive pair of Z. Cavarricis.

I read this article, Mom Cliques: Where Do You Fit In?, in a recent issue of Parenting magazine that was all about the roles women take on in “Mom Cliques.” In fact it was written by the woman who wrote the book on which the movie “Mean Girls” was based, Rosalind Wiseman. The roles I had to choose from included things like The Queen Bee Mom, Torn Wannabes and Desperate Wannabes, Sidekicks, and Outcasts. Are you kidding me? Almost every single “type” was negative in both connotation and description. I was horrified and offended as a mom, a woman, and a person above the age of 12. I’d like to think that I and we are better than that. I thought the article was so discouraging since it stated these types as fact and offered very little in the way of solving this problem if it truly exists. And I guess I was a little scared (hence my violent reaction). I had experienced some of the same feelings already and was not even in a “Playgroup” yet. What if this was just the beginning?

For the most part I did not find much good in this article because it felt like it was giving moms a bad name. But this part: “Cliques form when we feel pressured to bond to survive a stressful experience — and there's not much that's more stressful than parenting,” I get that. I feel like I am in middle school again because I don’t know what I am doing. I am insecure about my ability to parent my child and that fear pervades everything else in my life, just like the fear of learning who I was way back then made me an obnoxious, petrified, zit covered little monster (I was a middle school teacher for a few years and intend to be so again when Sam is a bit older so don’t get me wrong – I love the little monsters specifically because I remember what that felt like). So I see the connection here, but we are older and wiser now, so let’s move on from this clique thing.

Don’t we have something in common simply by being moms? And I’m not saying we should all be BFF and get those broken heart necklaces that fit together to prove our eternal loyalty, but is a “hello” too much? A smile? Eye contact? Isn’t the shared experience of birth and mothering a major connection between 2 people since it is currently the common focal point of our entire lives? My best friends in middle school were made through a common interest in the color black. I feel like we should be able to stop and look at each other’s babies when we walk by on the street and not have to wonder if the other woman thinks we aren’t dressed like a hip enough mom for her to be seen with us.