We were all moms…but something was off.

Being a mom is hard. That’s part of the definition. But we all handle that differently. Some of us post about it with picture illustrations all over social media and share every detail. We ask for prayers for every sleepless night and every doctor visit that ends with a bad report. Some of us pretend we’re perfect, and even with other mommas we can’t take off the mask. Then we end up feeling isolated and misunderstood. Probably because we found out too late that we trusted someone we shouldn’t have…and now we’ve closed the door to most possibilities for friendship.

Some of us like to post cute things. Pictures of the kids… But we save the sick day photos and the deep dark confessions of parental angst for every now and then. It’s like we think, No one will see this; I’ll just slide it in between this inconsequential post and this sweet smile, and no one will see it.

Buy EVERYONE sees those posts.

I avoid the ones with the complaints and detailed distress, but you can’t avoid women gathered around a kitchen island for a gathering to which you RSVP’d Yes.

So I found myself surrounded by women who rent the runway, so they can wear the same poncho Reese Witherspoon wore to lunch one day. Women who casually talk about getting each other’s relatives to fly their personal planes (YELLOW planes) over their kids’ summer birthday parties… Who buy pretty dresses and “fascinators” (a floral headdress) for the derby 🐎with “friends” they met in Bora Bora…

There was a mom to whom Oprah was not just a talk-show host she’d seen onscreen with her kids in a glittery fantasy; her father owned a hanger where Oprah kept one of her planes. She was a woman with startling and unusual blue eyes, pricked with thin black centers. She cursed every other sentence, let everyone in the room know she was at least seven years younger than them, and spoke to the room at large, more than she made eye contact. I got the sense she was bored and surrounded by people unworthy of her direct attention. I had to ask myself if we actually lived in the same neighborhood more than once.

Blue-eyed Momma adores her kids, but holding other people’s little babies never appeals to her. She doesn’t feel a desire to have any more.

Downtown Broker Momma is challenged by children who like to eat toilet tissue, “other people’s un-baby proofed homes,” and having to make time for herself.

One of the moms is normal: She talks about Target and coupons, but she’s on an opposite end of the island.

After awhile, I give up trying to connect with Blue-eyed Momma and just focus on eating the delicious quiche and cheesecake she made.

Their looks and wealth don’t bother me; it’s the lack of depth. That lack leaves me frustrated and bored and unable to get a foothold – interest or common ground. Target and martinis is across the kitchen island talking to our quiet host and feels impossibly far away.

What was off? There was something that should exist between moms when they gather. Social inhibitions should melt in its warmth. I’m talking about that thing that makes a mom finally smile at your prying and just spill the beans. Because she’s decided: Why not? She’s a mom, too. We kind of know each other already.

Like when your kids are in the car cart in the grocery, bickering or laughing or singing too loud… And you see another mom coming toward you…and smile. Because you’re pretty sure she gets it. She’s been here before or, somewhere just like it. She’s a mom.

Well, at the gathering that day…that mom thing that melts the walls between our Mom Bond..? It just wasn’t there. You know what else wasn’t there (I can only see this in hindsight)? The discernment to recognize that I felt like and also responded in the way I often do in new situations: I felt itchy in my own skin, and I judged new people…before I’d gathered NEARLY enough intel to do such a thing. Can YOU separate the mom judgment from the mom truth? It’s worth a try.