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"I don't think I do postpartum as well as other women.” I was standing in the kitchen chopping onions for the moqueca.
Miles was sitting at the table, chopping our garden tomatoes... he paused to trying to find the right words to respond, aware this could be a touchy subject.
So I went on, "Sarah looked really put together.” It was her first time back to church after having her baby three weeks ago. She looked happy with her baby snugly tucked into a wrap, she was wearing a dress and a necklace. A necklace. I didn't even try wearing jewelry until just a few months ago... my daughter is almost one. And that dress, it cut off at the knees and armpits.... like, she had to shave to wear it. I quit buying any clothing that requires me to shave my armpits.
I don't remember well my first Sunday back at church, but I don't think I looked like that. I'm pretty sure we came in lugging a carseat, two (empty) baby carriers and our tiny baby in my arms. I didn't know which one she would need and I couldn't think straight enough to realize we didn't need three modes of baby transportation for one baby. I never got the hang of the wrap anyways... I remember trying to wrap it around myself and putting Juney in it before the service, only to have her immediately start crying. So, then I tried to wriggle free of it, like a bug trying to escape a web, so I could hold her with my arms again. Miles and I sat with our pile of discarded baby wraps, carseat, diaper bag, nursing cover and my purse beside us as if we had scooped up a pile of junk from our living room floor to attend church with us. I don't remember what I wore, but I sure as hell know I wasn't wearing a necklace or a dress that I had to shave for.
"I think hormone changes affect you more than other women” Miles gently ventured, “like when you were on birth control, it really affected you. It doesn't do that for other women.”
"I know.” I said, moving on to chopping bell peppers. I was sad. And sad because I was sad. I should be happy for her, that she is doing well. Happy that she was excited to introduce her baby to her dog when they got home from the hospital. I had my mom keep my dog for a few weeks after we got home, then a few months later, I decided I couldn't handle it and gave her to my sister (she is way happier there, by the way). I should be happy that she looks like she's doing well.
Miles went on, like trying to put pillows around me to pad my feelings, “I can't speak for her, I don't know if she is doing well or not. It's great that they look like they're doing fine. You're just different. You respond to hormone changes differently.”
I was still sad. I knew I needed to do some work around this later. That's why we're here, at the coffee shop.
Why are you upset?
I guess, I thought Sarah would be my friend. After Juney was born, a few women from my church called and asked how I was doing. Or maybe they texted. Or I called them. I don't remember. But when they asked how I was, I couldn't help but start weeping. I was drowning. I was not ok. They spoke to me to encourage me. To tell me the baby was ok. “She's ok! You're such a good mama!” To pray with me. I felt ripped open, vulnerable. I cried with women I barely knew over the phone and told them I wasn't doing ok. Those friendships didn't develop much. The “We'll get together with our babies to go on a walk.” turned into, “My kiddos have been sick all week.” turned into, “Hey! How are you doing? It's been a while! She's getting so big!”
“I'm doing better, she slept for five hours last night!” I responded. I was. Things got better. Slowly. Now things are really good. Honestly.
I guess I thought Sarah would need that too. I would ask how she's doing, and she would weep on the phone with me, and say she's not doing ok. She's still traumatized by the birth. She can't even. I would say, “We can go on a walk together and talk.” And I would. I would drive over there with my baby girl and offer to do chores and listen to her tell me how hard it is. When I texted and asked how she was, she said, “We're doing well! Very little sleep, but lots of baby snuggles! :) ”
I said, “Good! I'm glad you're doing well!” I wasn't. Isn't that awful? I should be happy that she is doing well. I should be happy that she can put on a necklace and shave. Was I just jealous? Or was I hoping that the vulnerability of postpartum depression would open the door for a deeper friendship. One that I could relate and honestly say, “me too.” I think that's it.
I want to be happy for my friends. Genuinely happy. But I can't pretend that heavy lump in the pit of my stomach wasn't there. I can't pretend that I didn't get quiet and pensive so I could hear the slow dull “thump” of my heart and that I didn't turn on a sad song on Spotify. One that will let me wallow for a bit in my loneliness. I don't think it's jealousy. It's loneliness.
It's so hard to make mom friends. I've been trying madly for eleven months. I've reached out to almost every mom in my area I can think of. I've asked if they'd want to go on a walk, hangout, go to the mall? I downloaded “tender for moms” as I jokingly call it. An app where moms can upload a profile with their interest, children's age and swipe up if you find a mama you want to meet. I've asked women from church if they'd want to meet up. Nothing much has come from my attempts. I thought for a while that maybe I could click with Sarah.
I told my husband I knew I sounded too needy, clingy. Too teenagerish and angsty, but I really wanted her to be my friend. I didn't like myself for it, but there it was. My expectant teenager heart in my grown-ass woman's body dreaming about maybe making a “bosom friend,” like Ann of Green Gables.
God, I still hope to make a bosom friend. Or a few close friends.
Someone with whom I can share my sincere belief and hope in God all the while sharing my deep skepticism and rebellious attitudes. Someone who would just understand my love for Handel's messiah and ancient hymns, and also ACDC's Highway to Hell. Someone with whom I can parent the way I parent and talk the way I talk and just be and not apologize for it. God. Would you give me some such friend?
Maybe a christian friend with a little bit of heathen in her too... Or a heathen friend with a little bit of Christian in her. Either way.
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