Just as the doorman at WSWC had asked me “What are you here for?” I heard “Jenn! Wait up!”
It was Kira, so far the mom I felt closest to—maybe because she sort of made me feel like I had my shit together, by comparison. Last week she actually had dryer sheets stuck to her sweatpants—the kind of thing I thought only happened on TV shows, like slipping on a banana peel. （Then again, who was I to judge—the dryer sheets meant that, unlike mine, Kira’s pants were at least clean.） Kira might’ve been a hot mess, but she was also refreshingly authentic and open. No “Isn’t having a baby a miraculous joy?” rhapsodies, but a generous helping of “Why in God’s name is my hair falling out?” and “Is anyone else still wearing the mesh underwear, or is that just me?” It was a relief that I didn’t have to be the one to say some of the things that she said, because I probably wouldn’t have had the courage.
“What’s up? How was the week? How’s this one treating you?” She gestured to Clara with her head, precariously clutching a half-full Starbucks cup labeled “Kerri” with her non-stroller-pushing hand.
“Meh. She’s cute and all, but she still doesn’t understand how great sleep can be. How’s Caleb?” Kira’s son was ten weeks old, a couple of weeks younger than Clara. Notably, Kira was mostly dressing Caleb in hand-me-downs from her sister’s daughter, which meant Caleb wore a lot of flower prints and pinks. Kira seemed completely unconcerned that people would think he was a girl, which made me like her even more.
“Ugh! Don’t these babies want to sleep? Sleep is so great. I don’t get it. What is their problem? Also, Caleb’s poops are green. Like, bright green. That can’t be right, can it?” I hoped the question was rhetorical, because I had no idea what color baby poops were supposed to be. Clara’s were yellowish but I had never thought to verify whether that was an appropriate shade. I’d google it later, and probably come away convinced that her poop color signified her imminent demise.
We walked into the room where we met each week, which was spacious with comfy lounge chairs, a huge window facing the park, and a big, plush play mat for the babies. One of us was in charge of bringing snacks each week, and as we parked our strollers, I could see Selena arranging croissants and cookies from Kirsh Bakery, making today one that would unfortunately bring me no closer to fitting into my jeans again.
“Hey, ladies! How are you two?” Selena greeted us with a wide, warm smile and blew kisses toward us as she continued working on the pastries. Like Kira and me, Selena was also in “athleisure,” but unlike us, she looked like she had stepped off the cover of a yoga magazine in her high-waisted crimson leggings and matching crimson crop top （yes, a freaking crop top）， with white sneakers and an oversize denim jacket. Her long black braids were pulled back into a low ponytail, held there by a velvet scrunchie. Selena’s seemingly effortless look was one that would have, for me, required unfathomable effort, and even with that effort, I could never have pulled it off. Especially the crop top. My God. But Selena rocked it. “Vanessa is in the bathroom, so we’re just waiting on Isabel,” she told us.
Selena’s son, Miles, was on the play mat, reaching for a stuffed duck toy. “This man right here is driving me crazy!” she exclaimed. “He decided to start rolling over already, so now we have to ditch the moon suit thing, which had been working wonders. Just when I got used to sleeping again! This is really early to be rolling, right? Come on over here for some carbs. Are we having wine after this?” Selena made motherhood look easy, and even when she chimed in to add to or corroborate the litany of challenges that we all described, it almost seemed like she was just doing it to be congenial. Motherhood wasn’t dominating her. She was dominating it. Even if she was too gracious to admit it.
Vanessa entered breezily, her daughter, Phoebe, asleep on her chest, snugly attached to her in a charcoal-gray Boba wrap.
Vanessa.
To be honest, it made no sense to me that Vanessa was even part of this group. It was a new moms’ support group, after all, and while I know you can never know someone until you walk in their shoes, it simply did not seem like she needed support. Vanessa was “dressed down” in skinny jeans, ankle boots, and a tucked-in white button-down—and the reason she was so “casual” was because this was her day off. From work. And not just any work: she was a plastic surgeon at a posh dermatology practice in the neighborhood. Vanessa had already returned to her practice （albeit part time）， and was apparently balancing new motherhood and her professional commitments with grace and ease, judging from the lack of dark circles under her eyes and her stress-free, freshly glossed smile. Her face was unlined and she looked younger than the rest of us, though it was hard to know if that’s because she was or if she just regularly partook of the Botox that she could undoubtedly access at work. Her Phoebe seemed a contented, peaceful baby who, according to Vanessa, had slept through the night at five weeks. I genuinely didn’t know what kind of “support” she felt she was getting from any of us, unless it was to simply confirm that she was superior. But, to be fair, Vanessa had only recently moved to New York City, so she was probably just looking to meet new friends, too.