I can’t do this without you

On mothers loving other mothers

2022

It’s 12am and I’m in labor. I grab my phone and call our friend, the mother of Raiden’s friend, who planned to pick him up when it was time for me to go to the birth center. She answers on the second ring.

“Bria, it’s time?” She says, before I say anything.
“Yes, I’m in labor.”
“I’m on my way.”

My husband wakes Raiden, and in the short bursts between contractions I’m checking up on him and making sure he has eveything for the overnight. He went to bed with a headache and I really want to make sure he gets what he needs for it.

“He has a headache” I text my friend.
“We will take care of him.”

Don’t worry, she signals to me. You worry about you. We got this.

—

It’s 1am and my three-day-old newborn won’t breastfeed. I am feeding her milk from a cup. I am in tears. I feel like I can’t feed my baby. I am feeding my baby, but it doesn’t matter, the emotions dig into me. A friend told me to call her anytime for help, night or day. This is night. This is the hour that infant moms are awake. Here for each other. A silent group, in solidarity. I call her.

—

It’s 8am the next morning and I’m FaceTiming another friend while she teaches me to use the breast pump she gave me. She walks me through it. She reassures me. She’s had a baby with a tongue tie too. She tells me who to contact for more help, what to do, that it will be okay. I try not to burst into tears, again. She is a lifeline.

—

2017

It’s 10am and I am in the midst of a days-long panic attack. I am suddenly a new mother — a step-mother to my husband’s first born who just moved in with us full time— and I don’t know how to be a mother without more support. I don’t know how to be a mother at all. But I will figure it out. I am figuring it out. For our child, and for myself, I will figure this out.

When I first became a mother nine years ago, none of my close friends had kids. I felt a gap between us break open, and the shock of this sudden transition washed over me and affected my mental health in deep ways. I had friends to rely on and hold me, I adored and valued and loved my friends, but I did not have anyone close who understood this experience. I had no other mothers to hold me. I had no one else who I could turn to and say, “This is so f’ing hard,” and they knew immediately what I meant. I had no one to tell me, “I’m so scared too,” but also “We will be okay, together.” It wasn’t all hard or scary or bad, it was the most beautiful moments too. The moments that made me gaze at this young human in wonder and think, “Wow.” The kind of heart-wrenching, I can’t believe this child is so incredible, and, “Is anyone else getting this??” moments that only parents truly understand. There was no one else to share those wow moments with. And that’s okay, it is, but it’s also lonely. That is nothing against non-parents. We just can’t fully understand experiences we don’t have.

When Nova was born I had already made more friends who had kids, many of my existing friends had become parents, and more were expecting to. We laughed and cried and raised our babies together, over 3am texts and smiley baby photos and long stroller walks through the crisp too-early morning. These mothers raised me, and I hope I raised them, as they cheered me on and laughed with me and could look at me and understand my “Wow,” moments, and take in my “Holy shit, this is hard,” and know immediately what I meant. They are still raising me, but I feel more grounded than ever. Grounded in their love, their care, and how we show up in every way we can for each other.

—

2022

It’s 9am and my friend is taking our two-week-old for a morning walk because we desperately need some sleep. She waves goodbye and sends me pictures of our baby sleeping in the stroller as the sun shines in the background. My heart aches with gratitude and longing, both for my baby’s sleepy face, and my friend’s kindness. We are so lucky.

—

It’s 4am and I am scrolling while I pump milk. I notice a mom friend is also online and decide to text her. It is 4am, and all over, moms are awake. “The night comes and it is a second day,” a friend once told me —or rather, tells me often. It’s true. I am exhausted. But at least I know we are doing this together.

—

2024

It’s 10am and our family is moving two households into one while our toddler plays at a friend’s house. We moved here partially to be closer to that friend, that family. The distance of a bus ride or a two mile trek instead of half an hour and a freeway away. It makes all the difference. It truly does.

It may seem odd that two miles is so different from ten. That being able to take a 2 mile bus ride and walk is so different from having to jump into a car and onto the freeway. But it is. It’s different for the summer afternoons when I send those “I’m so hot and done with this, are you available to play?” texts to my friend. It’s different when I pick up her oldest daughter from her preschool, just five minutes from our house, and Nova and her play the afternoon away together. It’s different when we want to see them but don’t have a car that day, and it’s different when driving home at 630pm, Nova desperately tired, after having dinner at their house. Next door would be better. More of us, in the same neighborhood, that would be better. But this is also big. It’s changed our days and it’s changed our lives. A change so small, becoming so big.

—

It’s 3pm and my daughter is growing up and my heart is breaking. Roots and Wings, a friend writes to me, as a reminder of what we are doing for our children. It is hard but it will be okay. We will be okay.

—

2025

It’s 930am and I don’t like how I spoke to my daughter this morning. I am feeling guilty and wrong and ashamed and sad all at the same time. “You are human,” my friend reminds me. “It’s okay.”

—

It’s 10pm and I’m laughing hysterically at a friend’s texts as we bemoan our children’s sleep habits. As we compare notes on things to try out, as we remind each other it’s just a phase. It’s all just a phase. We will sleep again. Probably.

—

2026

It’s 3pm and I’ve just picked up Nova’s friend, my good friend’s kid, from preschool. We drive to their house to play. I’m anxious about my upcoming trip and my friend is tired from being alone with a baby all day. She hands me the baby and I hold her and coo while my friend and I chat. The kids run off to play. My friend takes these few minutes with two whole hands to do the dishes. My anxiety calms. I relax. I forget what time it is.

We are mothers, together.

—

It’s 1pm and a friend is asking my opinion on a parenting decision over text. We don’t always agree, but we always respect each other, and our baseline values are aligned. I always want these challenging and respectful and laughter-filled reciprocal relationships. I need them to look at my decisions from another angle. I need them to be a better mother. I need them to be a more clear-minded mother. I need them to be a more joyful mother. I need them to be the mother that I am. I need other mothers, with me, here for me, to be the mother that I am. I can’t do this without you, I think. “I am so lucky to have you”, I write, and hit send.