Why is it so hard to make friends after becoming a mom?

An interaction at a playground handed me the answer (sort of).

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Who would think an ordinary playdate with my son- started out just like one of hundreds of them almost always involved slides, swings and wood chips, would turn out to be one that gave me such clarity on mom friendships?

I clearly didn’t.

While my son was playing with wood chips (told’ya), I got to eavesdrop on a conversation between two mothers, which would be intellectually stimulating enough for any mother who just spent the past 48 hours of her time solely with someone whose longest sentence was “I sick”. Curiosity took me all the way through, almost.

They were sitting on a bench. One had her eyes on her toddler daughter playing from a near distance, while telling the other mother who was nursing her newborn, half covered by a pastel pink blanket. 

“I can’t make new friends who aren’t mothers anymore, you know? It’s wasting my time,” she turned her head towards where her daughter was and quickly turned back to take a brief glance at the other mother, waiting for her response.

The other mother viciously nodded.

She then quickly turned her head towards where her daughter was, searching for her. As soon as her eyes landed on the little one, they instantly seemed relieved. Less than a second later, she yelled out: “Be careful, sweetie! Be careful, please!” as her daughter was about to go down a slide.

“I have lost all of my old friends. They just don’t understand me anymore, you know?” the nursing mother speaking without raising her head.

At first, a strong thought immediately kicked in.

“Surrounding ourselves with only mothers or parents would ultimately limit our points of views as a person. We should make friends with people at different life stages and with different priorities to enrich our life experiences and expand our perspectives as human beings,” I thought to myself, full of moral judgement.

Then, it suddenly hit me: not only have I not made one single friend (I’m not talking about those surface-level, “How-are-you” and “I’m good” interactions, but those solid friendships that require vulnerability), but many of my old friendships have also been noticeably fading into the void.

As much as I wanted to keep indulging in my thoughts, I was quickly brought back to the present after seeing my son trying to climb up a wall that seemed way too advanced for his age. I rushed over without hesitation.

He moved his right leg up, then tried to reach higher with his left hand. Pulled himself up higher. Then, his left foot searching for a stool to rest on. Right, left, right, left. Found it. Right hand reached further. Higher. Higher. Higher. Pulled himself all the way up.

“Yay! You made it all by yourself,” I cheered for him. He stood on the top of the landing, turned around, and gave me the proudest and biggest smile.

I smiled back at him, with pride.

Then, the corner of my eyes caught the two mothers stood up from the bench, packing their stuff and ready to leave.

“Sweetie. Time to go!” her strong and firm voice travelled all the way over.

“No!” I realized her daughter was standing right besides me, looking just as firm.

The mother walked over: “Sweetie. Time to go.”

I looked over at her daughter, noticing her whole body started to tense up.

“Com’on, let’s go! I’m leaving,” the mother pretended she was about to walk away: “Are you coming?”

The girl stood there, not moving.

“I’m going to carry you,” the mother reached out trying to grab the girl while she deliberately let her whole body go limp. From a sad whine to a full-on scream, all within 5 seconds.

The whole playground all of sudden seemed quiet. More eyes on the duo.

Part of me wanted to leave to give the mother some space to deal with this storm, but the slightly evil side was curious to see it unfolding, right in front of me.

The mother started to look a little embarrassed. Our eyes accidentally met. Just as I was feeling a little uncomfortable, my son stopped playing with wood chips, bent over, grabbed a dried leaf, walked towards the little girl, and offered it to her. She immediately stopped screaming- even though tears kept dropping on her flushed face. I wasn’t sure if it was because the leaf had something magical, the two little people share an (unspoken) common language that are not comprehended by adults, or she was simply in shock.

“Oh, what a beautiful leaf. Thank you,” the mother tried to encourage her daughter to express some gratitude, but we, as mothers, mutually understood that she was expressing her gratitude towards me- as if my son and I had emerged into one party, and his action was also mine.

“It’s always so hard to get her to leave the park. Always a battle,” she looked at me right in the eye, with tenderness.

“I know! We’ve recently started trying to give him a heads-up and set up a 5-minute timer with our phone. Once the alarm is up, we leave no matter what. It’s been working quite well for us,” I shared bluntly without thinking about if she was even looking for any parental tips. A little regret kicked in as soon as I finished my sentences.

“Oh, that’s such a good idea. I’m going to try that,” she greeted my suggestion with joy. Her sincerity took my regret away.

“How old is he?” she asked.

“Just about to turn 22 months- a very active stage,” we both laughed.

“Tell me about it. Mine just turned two. It’s so exhausting but also fascinating to see how curious they are,” she looked over at her daughter, who was now burying leaves under wood chips with my son.

“Do you live in the neighbourhood?”

“Oh no. We’re only here to visit families. We moved out of the city almost two years ago as we knew we needed a bigger space. So basically, we were priced out,” I laughed at my own jokes (which was the truth), but then felt extremely awkward when my laugh met silence.

“Oh okay.”

Then, more silence.

“Anyway, nice to meet you,” she picked up her daughter: “Say bye, sweetie,” looked at me, forced a smile, and quickly looked away.

“Oh, nice to meet you too,” before I even finished my sentence, she already turned around and walked away. “B..ye,” I ate half of my word.

Just as I was slightly puzzled, the little girl, peaking through the back of her mama’s left shoulder, waved at me and smiled. I waved back. My son standing besides me, waving too.

The mother joined the other whose newborn was now in a stroller.

Watching them leaving, becoming smaller and smaller, and eventually disappeared, I started to feel a hint of sadness.

“Mama! Mama!” I looked over, my son trying to climb the wall again.

“Oh, are you ready? Alright! Let’s go!”

My active toddler saved me from drowning in my own sorrow- which at times could clog my emotion pipe, but this time, it was for the better.

It was quite obvious that the mother chose to not “waste” anytime with me- even though I’m a mother and by (one of) her befriending requirement, I should have been perfectly qualified. But she just added another requirement: proximity also matters.

To be completely fair, I’ve have done the same thing.

Research shows making a casual friend takes 50 hours on average, while close friendships would take around 200 hours. Who’s got that kind of time? Especially when you’re an adult, a mom, a working mom?

I did the math: If I were to spend 3 hours a week to nurture our friendship, that means it would take at least 67 weeks, which means 16.5 months, which means almost a year and half. This is as if we were to consistently be putting in the effort every single week, without any slacking. Phew. Good luck with that!

I even threw out some scenarios: We live roughly 33 kms apart right now, and when we move to our new home in another city, there will be nearly 190 kms between us. Our kids won’t go to the same school. They won’t be attending the same community events. It would be a million times harder to try to accommodate each other’s schedule to get together- especially having to plan around naps and bedtime routines. Maybe having a playdate once a year? Maybe twice, if we try a little harder?

Rationally I understand our circumstances would dry out this friendship before it even gets to blossom- not to mention to taste its fruits, but I think the sadness didn’t come from the fact that we didn’t become fast mom friends, but simply because the reality hit me right in the face: making new friends is no longer an organic act.

Although it’s clear that it’s been more trying than ever to make new friends since we entered adulthood (which I’m still not sure technically when) and it’s become even more challenging since the pandemic started, becoming a parent has just automatically added another filter to this already overwhelmingly thin layer of possibility.

And more so, I think the saddest part is that the quirks and weirdness that made our pre-motherhood friendships stick, no longer matter.

When it comes to making friends, we are moms first, always.

Some of my closest friendships are indeed with moms, but the thing is: we became friends before we became moms. We had our own inside jokes; we share fond memories that do not involve our children; we see each other as multifaceted human beings who have MANY other interests than changing diapers; and although we do still talk about pregnancy, child-birth, baby gadgets, and the struggles of finding time for ourselves, we also don’t hesitate to dive in conversations about life, womanhood, travel, and dreams.

In these friendships, we are friends first, moms second, always.

So…maybe the solution to the decline of my friendships isn’t trying to make new mom friends, but simply holding onto those good old friendships, and when indeed looking for new friends, start a conversation with “who are YOU”, instead of “how old is your kid?”

As a new-ish mom, I’m genuinely curious to know if you have made any solid friendships since becoming a mom and how did that friendship start? If you’d like to share, please comment in this post, or reply to this letter. I’d love to read them.