The Older Mom Squad

I’m a first-time mom in my 50s, but I’ve acclimated to the idea that my friends’ kids are in college. I’m not fazed by the words “my” and “grandchild” coming from acquaintances my age. I’ve imagined being the sole gray-haired mom at school pick-ups.

So, I was shocked when I heard that my 49-year-old friend, Noam, was pregnant, and she was due to give birth a few months before our son was due. I thought it was misinformation – like Rizzo’s alleged “bun in the oven” (as a child of the ‘70s, I can contextualize virtually anything around the movie, Grease ). I texted Noam and gingerly enquired if she was indeed pregnant. I expected her to ask if I was insane, but she said yes, she was seven months pregnant with a donor embryo and she was fully geared up for single motherhood.

After my son Ben was born, I discovered my friend Amanda had given birth to her son, Carlin, a couple of months before me. Carlin and Alfie (Noam’s son), were two months old, which translated to two years in my mind since aren’t new mom years kind of the same as dog years (just different because it’s not multiples of seven)? Noam told me she knew other women—acquaintances and friends of friends—who had recently given birth and she suggested a new mom meet up.

The phrase “New Mom Meet-Up” conjured visions of women in dresses from the 50s—like a G-rated Valley of the Dolls —all sharing recipes, complaining about their husbands, and discussing their baby’s poop in detail. Mostly, I figured, these meetups were comprised of women silently judging each other. Isn’t that a scene in every new mom movie? I was already judging most things I was doing, convinced that every time I ignored one of my son’s cries, I was scarring him for life. I certainly didn’t need anyone giving me the side-eye because I wasn’t breastfeeding.

At the same time, new motherhood had me spinning. I was wholly unaccustomed to spending most of my time around someone who couldn’t speak and who expected me to wipe his butt. Suddenly, I no longer knew who I was.

I decided to attend the meetup after receiving Noam’s WhatsApp invite, which included 12 new mothers. The meet-up was in a park, so I figured Ben and I would be able to easily escape if the experience felt cliched and annoying. Then it occurred to me I should invite Amanda.

The day of the meet-up was sunny and Bennie and I had cabin fever. Taking him out was new to me, and extremely complex. Other moms made connecting and disconnecting the car seat and stroller look simple, but for me, they were decidedly not, so I left way too early. We were the first to arrive at Pan Pacific Park.

One by one, the ladies showed up, some with their babies in carriages, others bravely wearing their infants in their baby bjorns. They plopped down next to us in the shady grass and laid their babies on their respective blankets.

All the other women seemed more comfortable than me, transporting their precious cargo with confidence, whipping out bottles and feeding tiny mouths with no need to focus intently. At the same time, being in the presence of women going through the utterly otherworldly experience of new motherhood made me feel like I could finally exhale after weeks of holding my breath.

The hour passed in what felt like a minute. As I was packing up our things, I heard myself say, “Can we meet again next week?”

The following week, only I, Noam, Amanda, and a friend of a friend of Noam’s, a woman named Valerie, showed up. The week after that, six women attended. And the week after that, we were back to our original four. Over time, that initial WhatsApp group of 12 women transitioned into a text chain among the four of us.

Although my baby is the only one that a surrogate carried and Amanda’s is the only one that was conceived naturally, our differences don’t matter. Maybe I’ve just become what I’d always judged­—a mother passionately discussing baby poop.

Instead of feeling like a cliché, I’m grateful for the support and information from my fellow moms. Valerie is a fount of knowledge—a walking Wikipedia with facts about babies, minus the errors Wikipedia entries tend to have.

Amanda is a “bougie mom” influencer and is obsessed with organic products. She offers a steady stream of recommendations for everything from adorably overpriced clothes to the best coconut oil for dry baby skin. All three women offer an astounding amount of comfort.

One day, when we were sitting in Griffith Park, a man with a guitar wandered out of the woods and asked if he could play a song for our babies. We felt a wood nymph had blessed us. When his friend started videotaping us and we realized our adorable babies were being used for content, we just laughed.

Topics on our text chain range from links to the best baby bouncers and commiserating over sleep deprivation, to stroller class workouts and pictures of a chateau in France for sale and a request that we all escape there together.

One Saturday, when it rained, we gathered at Valerie’s. She served donuts and gave each of us portable baby feeding kits. Amanda showed up another time with ridiculously expensive-looking diaper bags for us she insisted were on sale. Noam has given each of us tiny balls that project light shows onto the walls, and mini screwdrivers for all the toys that seem to demand them. I gave them all framed photos of their babies. On a night when I had a speaking gig at an event, they all showed up, babies in tow. Were these mommies potentially more thoughtful than the friends I’d always had?

Even though Valerie and Amanda are more than a decade younger than me, we are all at least a decade older than the standard “new moms.” It might be why we’re the opposite of the 1950s judgmental mom group I initially envisioned. We’re all against-the-grainers. We certainly aren’t conservative. Besides, judging other people is exhausting and moms our age need to conserve our energy.