As I approach my daughter’s first birthday this month, I’m reflecting on what it’s been like to become a mom so late in the game — and the thousands of lessons I’ve learned. A lot of people have carried me through pregnancy and the first year: my husband, for one, has been a rock. His mother and stepfather. My aunt and uncle. They’ve all shown up for us in ways we didn’t even know we would need, with home-cooked meals when I was in the newborn bubble, with baby care so we could work or sleep or unwind.
However, nothing has carried me quite like the groupchat a friend started in my first trimester. This friend had her second child on the way and realized three of us were pregnant all within months of one another, so she started the chat. Two other friends of ours were still postpartum and had kids under the age of one, so they joined: we needed some veterans. And I added a friend who was three weeks ahead of me and pretty isolated. Six women, three of us first-time moms, in what is now titled the “Grumpy Mommy Compound.”
An imperceptible shift in my locus of attention occurred when I found out I was pregnant. My gaze was drawn inward, focused on the baby growing inside me — but I didn’t realize it until a friend pointed out how withdrawn I’d become. It was only then I identified how disconnected I was feeling. The Grumpy Mommy Compound was formed at this pivotal moment. It saved me.
My anxiety levels were creeping up as I shared fewer of my hopes and fears with my friends and family and kept more to myself. I didn’t want to burden people with my pregxiety — I was self-conscious about, and acutely aware of, how much more insane I was. When I couldn’t sleep because the baby wasn’t moving (because she was sleeping), they were there to talk me down off the ledge.
The Grumpy Mommies are in different time zones, all over America and the world, which means someone is always awake. Like white blood cells rushing to a wound, they will flood the chat with wisdom, compassion, dark humor and their own anecdotes about hormonal meltdowns and their ill-equipped husbands. The only people who understood me were the Grumpy Mommies. I would bring my irrational preggo rage and unleash it in the chat — instead of on my poor, confused husband.
Now whenever frustration or resentment builds up, instead of being pouty or passive-aggressive with my family, a little voice inside of me says, “Take it to the chat. PSYCHO.” Before anyone even responds, I’ll feel better, just for the ability to vent.
It’s been two years. I trust these women with my life and deepest secrets. We’ve supported each other through birth. When I had my baby, the Grumpy Mommies were some of the first people to know along with my immediate family. All the different kinds of births are represented from natural to C-section. We talk postpartum highs and lows. Depression. In-laws. Breastfeeding. From dealing with stubborn toddlers, to feeling guilty about screen-time, to nail-clipping, we talk about everything. Nothing is too heavy or too petty. We’ve seen each other through the death of grandparents. They carried me through the grief of suddenly losing my OBGYN to a heart attack. Cohabiting, work and house-hunting are recurring stressors. We exchange hacks, recipes, motivation, memes and our dark thoughts. It’s a place for us to vent about our husbands — and remind one another why we love them.
Sleeplessness and sleep training come up frequently. Now that the kids are turning toddler, so do bumps on the head, biting and hitting. I was bemoaning the fact that I got a lecture from a good friend for letting my daughter cry it out: allegedly I had damaged her irreparably and she no longer stood a chance of being confident and well-adjusted.
“Apparently people frown upon ‘cry it out,’” I said.
“Everyone frowns on everything,” one of the veterans reminded me. Not in the Grumpy Mommy Compound. I’ve never felt judged or witnessed anyone judge anyone else. It’s pure, unconditional sisterhood. I’m so grateful for this group, as is my husband — a constant, ongoing conversation I can always turn to.
When I asked the ladies if they cared if I revealed the name of our sacred chat, they responded with enthusiasm. “I do not care. I fully support the masses learning of the compound,” one woman said. “Imagine Grumpy Mommy splinter cells,” our founder chimed in. “This chat is fucking great. No stakes and total acceptance. We can come and go but at the same time someone is always here. Makes me feel so connected and not crazy. I love you ladies.”
Every woman, pregnant or not, needs a Grumpy Mommy Compound. A virtual village to offer support and unconditional love in that way that only women can. It’s vagina camaraderie. Understanding and wisdom that comes with periods and boobs and birth and menopause. It’s born out of carrying the burden of humanity on our backs and in our wombs. You don’t need to be a mother to partake in the benefits of sisterhood — it’s our birthright as women. To all of you who carried me in the past year — in the chat and out of it — I love you ladies, too.
This article was originally published in The Spectator’s April 2023 World edition.
