How I came to love a park more than a party

Lauca combining the best of both with a party at the park.

Since having a baby some very close friends have all but dropped out of our lives. Its not entirely their fault, we’ve been pretty slack about keeping in contact with them too.  They’re some of my very favourite human beings on the planet, some of the most entertaining, genuine, loyal people I know. I think fond thoughts about them daily but the social events these friends tend to organise are at bars and clubs and road trips and big parties and band gigs. Its not just that we can’t take a baby (or rather a toddler) to these events (although we did take our baby to an overnight, outdoor rave in the first year – what an exhausting way to prove to myself that I haven’t sold out), its that our appetite for these things has diminished. Once you have a child I’ve found that your non-parent time is so limited you become very selective about how you spend it.

In addition, if I choose to spend my evening at a gig then I am also choosing to suffer an exhausting early start the next day with my toddler. Children can sense when you’re feeling low in energy and they basically reciprocate by being as high maintenance as possible. Knowing how punishing that next morning is has haunted quite a few of my nights out. Is this band good enough for the pain I will experience tomorrow mentally limping my way through breakfast, and nappy changes, and cleaning up play-doh, and soothing her frustration with the collapsing lego towers? Is this party interesting enough to warrant an evening away from him (for we can rarely both attend a night event, usually one of us has to stay home with the toddler – we’ve had three nights out together without our daughter in two years, that’s 3 out of 730 nights, I know I’m going on about it but THREE?! And this is why we’ve moved closer to family)?

The opportunity cost of a night out has become much greater for me. After my daughter goes to sleep the evenings have endless wonderful opportunities for me. He and I skip from the bedroom thrilled with the possibilities (yes, at the moment it takes two of us to get her to sleep, I don’t want to know how stupid that sounds, it is stupid and when we’ve got the where with all we will change it) – I could spend it completing a household task uninterrupted (oh, the gratification of goal completion), having an adult conversation with him (I miss him), working on the computer, reading, watching a DVD, having sex, having an argument in peace, having a shower by myself, watching a TV program of my actual choosing, listening to music, talking on the phone to a friend, sitting on the deck listening to the frogs … well you get the picture.

Its not that we never go out at night anymore (at least separately) or that we never want to go out at night again. I choose not to see this as a surrender. We’re planning to see The Pixies soon. A music festival, together, the two of us, sans toddler. Its just that its happening a whole lot less. But..

To compensate for the marginalisation of some friends I’ve simultaneously acquired new friends. Mother friends. My friendships with a couple of these women have grown at lightning speed, which is not surprising given they commenced in that first year of motherhood when we saw each other up to five times every week. When was the last time I spent so much time with a friend? School? And like the intensity of school friendships these friendships have been through occasional complications and tensions. The time we spent together in that first year would normally occur over a five year time-span with most adult friendships. We were also more tired, anxious, sensitive, and strung out in that first year than we usually are so our friendships were more vulnerable to strains. Plus, there was little room for us to withdraw from one another when tensions were building, the way you manage to with most adult relationships. We were isolated, we needed each other. And so, also like school friendships, the significance of these relationships in our daily lives became almost like family. I literally raised my daughter with them in that first year. I trust a few of these women more with my child than I do some family members. There are a couple of mother friends so special to me that I wonder what the hell that first year with my baby would have been like had I not found them.

Some of the most beautiful experiences I’ve had as a mother have occurred while I’ve been with a good mother friend. When I think of these friends I think of a long, satisfying conversation that waxes and wanes over politics, life ambitions, relationships, memories, cultural differences and similarities, family histories, embarrassments, frustrations, beliefs, heartaches, work stories, the extraordinary experience of motherhood, and even the mundane trivia of parenting. A conversation that copes, without resentment or irritation with the interruptions of wet nappies, spilt drinks, breastfeeding, breaking up squabbles, and getting a child back to sleep. A conversation that happens in a beautiful, big, grassy park, on the river, under huge trees, with half a dozen different accents in the air, and children scrambling over play equipment and bark and rocks and tree roots. A conversation that is held over the most decadent cakes a breastfeeding mother could crave.

And so when the sun sets and the conversation finally has to end I pack my contented little daughter into the car and I’m brimming with love. Love for my child, love for the role of motherhood, and love for mothers everywhere. Without a hint of cynicism.