In or out? The Moms Only Club in the post-infertility world.

This has been a hard post to write, let me say that up front. I think I need to eat some humble pie. We’ll see.

As a long time outsider to mom culture, I had no idea what kind of club I was going to find myself inducted into with this pregnancy. I sort of speculated when we adopted Mason, because dog-owners-who-love-their-dogs-too-much have a similar “us-ness” that you join when you do things like spend time at dog parks. But this experience is far beyond.

I admit, I’ve always found the “moms only” club irritating once I reached an age where most of my female friends and relatives were members. See, when you’re in your thirties and childless you eventually stop getting invited to your friends-with-kids’ parties and dinners, presumably because you’re thought of as someone who doesn’t want to be around kids.

But now that I’m pregnant, we’ve been welcomed back into this group of people – some of whom I’ve known forever.

It’s just, well, weird. It’s not bad. But it is the process of becoming a part of something you’ve resented for years. You definitely don’t want to opt out, but you don’t forget how you felt a few short months ago either. And that’s weird.

See, when you’re infertile you really don’t want to be around other people’s adorable children or around pregnant women. At least I didn’t. Whenever possible I avoided them. I was such an ass I didn’t even respond to several invites for baby showers, let alone RSVP with a polite “no” and send a gift. “Fuck it” said I. I couldn’t tolerate the idea of someone else having a baby that wasn’t me, not even long enough to step into Babies R Us to buy a stupid gift. I was really that bad. So bad that at one point I remember being at a party last fall where the host announced his wife was expecting, and I had to lock myself in their bathroom and sob. I left early.

Of course, that’s me. In case it’s not obvious yet, I am nothing if not overwrought with intensity at all the inopportune moments in life. My struggle with infertility shook me to my foundations – challenged the very meaning of my own life. IT SUCKED BALLS.

Despite my best efforts to contain myself (and I’m a licensed therapist, so you can honestly consider me a pro at that), perhaps my personal hell was noticeable to my friends with kids after all. I’d like to think that’s the reason we were excluded from their social lives for awhile, but truthfully I think they had more reasons to bond with other parents who could share child watching, toy sharing or other concerns. I don’t blame them at all for that. During the same period, mostly due to my frequent sour moods, we became far less social and offered invitations to our home only for rare special occasions. I can’t say the loosening of ties wasn’t a mutual process.

But I will say I was surprised to see how proactively our company has been sought now that I’m pregnant.

Would I suck if I said it makes me nervous?

I want to join the club and you know what? I really need to for my own sanity. I want to be able to ask people stupid questions like, “How do you go to the bathroom in a public restroom with twins in a stroller? Should I even bother to go out in public with them for the first six months? Where should the babies sleep? For how long?”My problem is, I hate, hate HATE to ask anyone for help. With anything.

Lucky for me, I didn’t have to ask. Help is coming, whether I’m able to ask or not. That’s one of the small miracles of motherhood I’ve discovered. Mothers can’t seem to help themselves when it comes to helping others.

So, I’ve found myself the recipient of this incredibly sweet outpouring of attention and support the likes of which I’d never imagined. I am humbled by the generosity especially of other women who have kids – many I’ve known and paid little attention to for years (some in my own family) and even several I’ve never met other than from their interest in this blog.

Other than being pregnant, I can’t understand what I’ve done to deserve such commeraderie. So I try to understand it like this.

Being pregnant is the dichotomy of a truly unique experience and a truly common one. It’s special beyond special. More special than Christmas morning waffles and more special than shooting stars. It’s the specialist thing I’ll ever do. I know that, even despite the ever present spasms in my shoulders and twenty pairs of shoes that don’t fit. And so do all these women who are reaching out to me now.

I think it’s partly to welcome and honor me for partaking in this continuity of the life force. And I think it’s partly their way of honoring and remembering the experience itself.

So whatever happens now, consider me in.