WANTED: Posse of Ride or Die Moms for Friendship and/or Occassional Day Drinking

I am not a weirdo. Let’s just get that out there right away so nobody has this crazy idea the reason I’ve had difficulty locking down a group of close friends is due to overt weirdness. I’m not a sneaky sniffer of armpits on the bus, nor a coffee-breathed close-talker. I don’t chew with my mouth open or yell colorful obscenities at unsuspecting bystanders. I’m not a drunken nuisance, unless you count the time in college I tried to steal a mechanical Christmas reindeer from someone’s yard and ended up barfing on their nativity scene.

Nope. I’m not a weirdo, or at least not in the traditional sense. In fact, I’m pretty darn average. I’m average looking with a pleasantly average demeanor. I typically make friends with average ease, and maintain my friendships with the average amount of kindness, loyalty and respect one would expect from a true friend.

Yet for some reason, since having a baby, I have had more trouble finding a group of close friends than the victim in a slasher film has of not falling down while running away from said slasher.

This isn’t to say I haven’t met any friends. Over the last two years I have been lucky enough to cross paths with a couple of incredible women who absolutely fill my cup, and whose friendship I appreciate with every fiber of my being. But I just thought making friends post-baby would be different. I thought it would be easier. I thought becoming a mom would break down barriers between women and automatically bond me with anyone else who was a mom because we both sublet our bodies for nine months.

I naively pictured my motherhood friendships being like those portrayed in Devine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood- Women who were so close they could drug and kidnap your adult kid when she was being snotty just to prove to her that her mother wasn’t a monster. Or at the very least, women who didn’t feel the need to shower or clean their house before inviting me over for a spur-of-the-moment, guilt-free 3pm beer on a day one (or both of us) were struggling.

But this perfect posse of procreating women alludes me, and I can’t help but wonder, why?

Did I miss the turn to the notorious “village?” You know, the one where everybody helps raise the kids? Did the decoder ring granting me access to the I-Just-Had-A-Baby-So-Let’s-Be-Best-Friends-Club get lost in the mail? Is there a secret handshake or gang sign described in the baby care booklet the hospital sent home, outlining how to communicate your allegiance to the Parental Posse from across the park? Or, am I actually a weirdo?

Of course I can recognize this is a multifaceted issue: exhaustion, impossible schedules, (nonexistent) naps, jobs, spouses- it all plays a role. Still, I can’t help but wonder if something we have control over, namely how we choose to label ourselves, is factoring into how difficult it is to bond with other women?

Labels can be helpful, but labels can just as easily lead to judgement and divisions. We identify as baby wearers, and La Leche Leaguers, SAHMs and CEOs. We are single moms, and working moms, “traditional” moms and moms married to moms. We are “natural birthers” and C-Section survivors, attachment parents and free-range “criminals” if you believe the state of Maryland. These labels don’t define who we are, but rather just a small piece of the puzzle that makes up our full story. Can’t we look past everything else and focus on the common thread we all share? I mean, what parent doesn’t have an EPIC poop-up-the-back story they are just dying to tell?

It’s easy for me to withhold judgement and listen to what someone else has to say behind the anonymity of a computer screen. It’s much harder to do in person. I get that. But it can be done. So I will keep trying in hopes of one day nailing down a posse of fellow non-labeling, open-minded, semi-awkward-but-not-full-blown-weirdo ride or die moms, who, under the necessary circumstances, would drug and kidnap my adult child to convince her I wasn’t a monster. Now who’s with me?

Emily Ramirez is a SAHM to a rambunctious toddler who is probably digging in the trash, riding the cat, or eating crayons. She has a mostly humorous parenting blog, Hold Me, Don’t Hold Me, where she details her successes and failures in the parenting world. She can be followed on Facebook and Twitter.