It Takes A Village —And The Villagers May Not Be Who You Think They Are

I attended a Mother Honestly event at The Dailey Method—Birmingham awhile back which featured a motivational speaker named Toni Jones.

I remember walking in to the event the same way I walked in to the end of the year dance at Middle School South when I was 11—-hovering near the perimeter, half-wanting to know what this was all about, half- wanting to evaporate.

The women attending the event all seemed so polished.

OOne woman was wearing a hat.

A hat.

Like, the kind of hat those beautiful people strolling beaches on Kohl’s picture frame display photos wear with wide brims and a thin leather bow.

“How in the fresh hell is that woman poised enough to be wearing a hat indoors while I’m sniffing myself to ensure that I don’t stink upon entry?” I questioned myself as I approached the sample smoothie table.

“Her baby must be sleeping through the night,” I reassured myself. “That’s how she has enough time to coordinate.”

I was all kinds of awkward and still trying to figure out how to somehow not make it obvious that I was wearing an Old Navy sundress in the midst of a fashion sea.

Motivational speaker Toni Jones was wearing a Grecian-blue jumpsuit and the most fantastic shade of lipstick I had ever witnessed when I walked into the studio room.

I skeptically waited to hear what she had to say.

There was a woman in the audience who was days from delivering her child. She naively raised her hand and asked, “What is the best advice you can give me before I deliver?”

Toni Jones then legitimately gave this woman the best piece of advice someone can give mothers.

Or give anyone, as far as I’m concerned.

She set this mother up for success before her baby even arrived.

“You need to know who your village is,” Toni told this mama-to-be. “And, don’t be surprised if it doesn’t end up being some of the people you think it will.”

Your Village Will Come—You’ve Got To Build It

My daughter, Maeve, had just turned one that summer. I sat on the floor of the Dailey Method tugging at my Spanx knockoffs and smoothing my sundress while I inhaled and exhaled that advice.

My village wasn’t at all who I predicted it would and would not be.

For some reason, I thought that me having a baby girl would instantly iron the wrinkles in the relationship between my mother and I.

I thought me becoming a mother would make us have more in common.

And in a few ways, it did. But in a lot of other ways, it did not.

Pre-Maeve, I envisioned my mom in my kitchen, stirring a bowl of brownie batter while I stood next to her and breastfed my daughter. We had just gotten home from a Target shopping trip where we took turns pushing the stroller and peeking under a pink muslin blanket to admire my baby girl.

In reality, none of that happened. My mom always claims to “not really need much” from Target, breastfeeding was hellish for me and it wasn’t for my mother, and, we’ve never baked brownies together.

In all actuality, we’ve never once baked anything together.

So why I would have expected that things would change once I had a baby, I’m still not exactly sure.

Maybe because I wanted my mother to mother me in the 90’s-sitcom-mom-way I saw some women doing.

Maybe because I was so desperate to have someone tell me it would all be okay, that I would eventually find some kind of rhythm, that she struggled, too, in her first days and weeks of being a mother.

But that isn’t the kind of relationship my mother and I share.

So, it took me some time, some therapy, and some distance to stop seeking certain things from the village I desperately kept trying to construct.

I have four sisters who I tried to give village memberships to, and most of them weren’t looking to be card-carrying members.

Naively and selfishly, pre-baby, I assumed they’d reprioritize their own lives once my daughter arrived and be available at the drop of an indoor hat to help me when I needed it.

(I’m also realizing that, unbeknownst to me, many of my unrealistic expectations included malls because I regularly pictured my sisters and I pushing my baby briskly in a stroller around Somerset Collection while we chatted.)

I had never gone to Somerset with any of them prior to having my daughter.

Two years later, I still have not set foot in Somerset at the same time as any of my sisters.

They have their own lives.

They’re not necessarily looking to align theirs consistently with mine. And that’s been a horse-tranquilizer-sized pill to swallow.

It’s an ego blow.

It’s a reality check.

It’s a realization that maybe things aren’t always the way you pretended they were and there’s a baby now, shining light on the truth.

Eventually, my village slowly began to grow itself.

Eyebrow Waxes and Grenades

I joined a moms’ group at Honey For Moms in Ferndale, only six weeks after having Maeve. This motherhood mecca has been the classroom in which I have learned lessons and formed friendships.

There, I met fifteen women who had babies the same age as Maeve. We share a daily text thread where we discuss everything from eyebrow waxes and diaper rashes to punching our husbands and throwing grenades in the bathrooms in which they hide from us and their children.

The Honey Mamas text thread is silenced on my text notifications because it can and does go off anytime and always. Someone is always up feeding a baby at three a.m. and someone is always there to commiserate when I text, “Why isn’t Maeve napping anymore?”

Marcia, Marcia, Marcia

My friend, Marcia, is a retired teacher who texts me regularly during the school day, reminding me to breathe, to “take five” and sit down at my desk, to remember that I am valuable, too. She remembers what it was like being a working, teaching mama of babies and she isn’t of the mindset “I struggled, so I’ll stand back and watch you struggle now, too.”

Marcia told me about how she had to go back to work after only six weeks postpartum in the 90’s, how she clearly still remembers leaving her young babies at daycare and not sleeping through the night.

She sees me and she’s holding space for me.

Cristina Morales

Cristina Morales, a physical therapist I worked with after holding 20 pound Maverick all day and night made my arms go numb, was the first person to touch my c-section scar.

I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

She asked me one week if I had begun to massage it yet, if I had begun to guide its healing.

It was so metaphorical to me.

I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it by myself, I told her. I already felt so isolated in my motherhood that I had to hand it over to her. Massaging the skin on that scar meant independently navigating the next voyage and accepting that my body had been permanently changed.

I needed someone to comfort me, to align with me.

People are so quick to ask how the baby is doing.

They’re not as quick to ask how the mama who brought him earthside is doing.

Cristina came to my house throughout September and October and she held Maverick when he cried so I could perform the healing exercises she taught me. She massaged my hands so I could begin to hold my son without pain again. She always listened to me sincerely and she stepped in to the emotions which came to the surface each week.

And, one week, I finally allowed her to gently manipulate my c-section scar as tears rolled from the ducts of my eyes. It was as if she steered the boat at that moment so my tired hands could have a break.

Sarah

I have a friend at work named Sarah whom I mention often.

It may seem to be a bit much for people who see us together so frequently.

But I lean on her because leaning on her guarantees that I will not fall down. And, I’ve learned that when you’re a mom, you’re everyone else’s guarantee.

When I lean on Sarah, Sarah is holding not only me, but Maeve and Maverick as well.

We met in 2007, when I came to Carkenord for a new opportunity. I was 26 years old, had the Kate Gosselin haircut, and spent at least 50% of my take-home pay on clothes, makeup, and fitness.

At that time, Sarah seemed so grown up. She had a young son, mentioned vacationing at her family’s condo in Florida, and knew about the intricacies of our health insurance.

Our personal lives have changed tremendously since then.

My hair is shoulder-length, 50% of my income goes to childcare, and I know about my health insurance policy now.

Sarah’s son is in his final year of middle school, she no longer has to rush out to pick him up from childcare, and she is sleeping through the night.

Our friendship has evolved.

She has a rocking chair in her classroom that was purchased with district money, most likely for read alouds and such.

I sit in that chair more than she does.

I sit in that chair every morning while she sits at her desk chair and we debrief. We discuss our extended families and how we want to live vicariously through her cousin, Ted, who is living in Düsseldorf and partying on the regular. Last winter, during my second pregnancy, we ate those massive cinnamon rolls from Panera on Fridays while laughing that we had made it through another week of raising kids who aren’t ours.

Nothing is off limits with Sarah.

I can ask her about finances, periods, marriages, and how she organizes her computer files. She drove my children and I to newborn photos in Auburn Hills when Mark threw his back out one week after my delivery.

And she never judges me. Ever.

This week, I asked her to fix my document projector.

She calmly came into my room, assessed the situation, plugged it in, and returned to her own room.

It was Thursday, some of our students were getting their taxpayer dollars worth, and we both had had it.

I crack under pressure before she does. We both know this. And she s never throws it in my face.

Sarah is an integral part of my village.

We laugh that we want our own podcast and we’ll have one as soon as we can figure out how to make it our full-time job.

Your Village Zip Code

If you haven’t yet, begin to find your village.

And don’t be surprised if who you think should be in the village zip code isn’t.

It’s okay. The card-carrying members will never leave you to feel alone.