Where Have All My Old Friends Gone? Up My Pregnant Ass
At 38 I find myself in quiet a conundrum. I’m pregnant, engaged and happy; therefore receiving a slew of messages from old friends and acquaintances. I know, I know, #FirstWorldProblems. But, where were those friends when I was in my late 20s/early 30s, single, needy and (in other words) a hot ass mess? They were with their happy, bouncy babies and significant others.
Now, they’re all back. Friends that are mommas are attempting to reconnect and “catch up” with me because, well, I’m a momma-to-be. They want to see “how I’m feeling” and “how I’m doing.” Because I’m knocked up, yo.
I appreciate your concern, old friends, but this sudden interest in my life is bugging me at my core. You’re up my pregnant ass and its nice and all, but you haven’t been here in a while.
That’s the truth, and as an authentic person I struggle with said truth because I can’t fake the funk. It’s difficult for me to embrace friends who pretty much stopped calling, texting, showing up and making time for our friendship when they fell in love and birthed babies. While they were raising kids I was raising a glass to the freaking weekend.
Cheers! By the way, I miss alcohol.
“You’re being a pain in the ass,” you say. Probably. “You should be grateful that old friends are showing you newfound love.” Perhaps. But I just can’t turn that feeling off and on. I am loyal to a fault. I am a ride or die BFF. You can birth 10 babies, have a show on TLC about your baby army, and post photos a gazillion times a day of said baby army on Instagram, and I’ll still call to check in and make plans. You’ll cancel the plans or say you’re too busy, and I’ll roll my eyes at your obsession with your kids, but I will make the effort to connect with you, Mama Bear – repeatedly. That is until it’s no longer reciprocated.
Maybe I will eat my words. When baby boy comes this summer I might be so exhausted I might become the friend that disapears and only hangs out with mom friends. Play dates might just become my new Happy Hour. Drinking Moscow Mules at a bar might be substituted with drinking wine at a “book club” while kids run around. It can happen. It just might. I’m not naive. I know my life as I know it is over.
I also know how I’m built. So, to all my former friends who are suddenly concerned about my wellbeing and curious about my life of mom-to-be and wife-to-be, I’m going to call you out on your bullshit. Probably with a glass of wine in hand. Nah, make it a Moscow Mule.