Little G and I attend a class for kids his age at the center where I took all of my birthing classes and all of our new mommy classes. It is not uncommon at any time when visiting the center to see a group of women, usually with napping babies in car seats atop snap-n-go strollers, gathered either on their way into or out of a new mommy class.
When I look at them I feel like I am on the outside looking in.
I remember being so new to being a mom that I CLUNG to my new mommy-group friends like they were life rafts in the vast sea of diapers and gas and spit up and non-napping. I never would have noticed someone just on the fringe of our group who had an older baby with her...heck...even if I HAD noticed that person, I would have thought they probably didn't have anything in common with me who was dealing with a boneless blob capable only of eating, sleeping and then being alert; rinse and repeat.
It is part of why motherhood, especially in these early years, is so freaking isolating. The reality is that I DON'T have a lot in common with a brand new mommy. Anything I could even remotely conjure up to say to her would carry the risk of being totally patronizing and/or scaring the pants off of her. Which is so weired, because in the grand scheme of things, our kids are only a year apart. In fact, depending on school systems and our kids, they may even be in the same grade someday.
Yet, for now, we are as separate from each other as those mothers I saw along my fringes the other day as they were all moving their kids into their freshman dorms at the local colleges -- we too have little in common and little time in our lives to try and create something. But I can't help but wonder what those moms would tell me if we were friends. Probably the same thing I would tell a new mom if we were friends:
Hold on tight.
The ride is fast.
You're doing a great job.
It gets easier.
You're going to get hurt.
Your heart is going to explode with awe...
...and one day you are going to blink, and they'll be all grown up.