I let out a sigh of relief when we arrived at our local library story time, only a minute late. It wasn’t our usual branch, but I just needed to get out of the house. My toddler, oblivious to what had been happening in our household the last few days, joyfully plopped in front of me in anticipation for the event to begin.
I swept a strand of my wet hair out of my face, just enough to camouflage it into one of my straggly braids. I noticed a mother to my right. She sweetly rocked a young baby to sleep in a stroller while a toddler played at her feet. She casually chatted with another mother to her right.
I wasn’t sure if they had met before — perhaps at storytime or from a prior engagement, but regardless, they seemed friendly towards one another. They laughed some; other times, they nodded in agreement. They had seamless conversation, all the while tending to their little ones’ needs without missing a beat. I knocked over my water as I tried to gather my busy daughter’s hair out of her face.
The librarian announced that the program would be starting soon. I turned towards the mother closest to me and made a comment about how we were lucky enough to get a seat at such a popular story-time spot. It wasn’t witty nor deep — just a piece of small talk in a (arguably pathetic) attempt to engage with other adults in the group.
Reacting to my comment, she blankly stared at me, forcing a couple of blinks. Then, she forced half of a smile; the fluttering blinks continued, but no words formed. Before I could save any potential in the conversation, she turned to the neighboring mom, puckered her lips and raised her eyebrows higher than an animated Disney character as her eyeballs rolled beneath them. They both chuckled to themselves as if they were the only ones in the room and continued talking about another everyday topic.
Now, I am not naive. I understand that not everyone can or will, get along in the real world. I didn’t expect we would instantly become BFFs from my one random comment. However, her reaction hurt.
In that moment, I mustered up any self-esteem and motivation I had left and poured it into creating an enjoyable and enriching time for my daughter. Storytime happened as usual, and when it was over, my daughter and I made our way back into the car to head home.
In retrospect, though, I wanted to confide in that woman the loss I had endured just a day prior. I wanted to share with her that, had it not been for my daughter, I’d still be curled up in my bed, avoiding the reality of being awake and reliving it all in my thoughts. I wanted her to know that I had been crying almost nonstop since I walked into that emergency room days prior. I wanted to know that her isolation made me feel even tinier than I already did before I walked into the library that day.
I wanted to tell her that, although I am not a “cool mom,” I am still a mom – something in which I know she has experience.
Sure, I rarely get my nails done, and I even more rarely get my hair done. I do not have a collective group of fellow moms who rotate hosting wine nights in which we share skincare routines and themed charcuterie. Most of my clothes are secondhand, not trendy, and/or 100% cotton. I haven’t worn anything with a heel or open-toe since before I became someone’s snack dealer. I do not listen to parenthood or fitness podcasts; my hobbies are truly niche for someone under the age of sixty. I cannot tell you who any of the real housewives are, but I can recite every word in every episode of New Girl. My small talk skills are horrible, and my social anxiety seems to increase the closer someone is to my very own age. I am awkward, to say the very least.
I know, again, I am anything but a “cool mom,” but in my opinion, the bond of being a mom by itself alone should be enough to create an understanding of common courtesy and respect amongst each of us (as if we shouldn’t already be doing that to others as it is…). We’ve all been there: the sleepless nights, the public blowouts, the grocery store tantrums, the never-ending attempts to get a child to eat something other than an applesauce pouch, the crippling anxiety of raising another human and hoping we are doing a halfway decent job at it. (Another Indianapolis mom tackles some of the common struggles in parenting here.)
So, while this post may appear to be nothing more than a passive-aggressive way to stick it to the “mean” mom at storytime, that is not my intention. If nothing more, I hope it serves as a little reminder that, although we cannot always see beyond the surface of someone’s personal life, we all share one very important identity in this beautiful, yet sometimes slightly overwhelming, world: we are mothers. Not only are we role models to the children we are raising, but we are also forever able to relate with one another the stress and toll the job takes on us. At the end of the day, we’re all sisters of motherhood, just trying to do our best day after day.
With that being said, if you see a mom trying to reach out, trying to connect, or simply struggling, think of a time you, too, were in a similarly vulnerable position. Sure, it may not seem like much, but our smiles, our small talk, and our reactions matter. Because – cool mom or not – I’m sure we could all use a little extra understanding and kindness in this chapter of our lives.
