Motherhood is harder than it looks, so thank you for continuing to reach out to me.
I want you to know so many things that I've never actually said to you.
But mostly I want to apologize.
I'm sorry I can't always listen.
Like the other day when I had to abruptly end our phone call—after we hadn't talked in weeks—because my 4-month-old was screaming so loudly I couldn't even think, let alone formulate a coherent sentence.
I'm sure I mumbled “I'm sorry" before I hung up, but I want to reiterate—I really am deeply sorry. You were telling me an important story and I desperately wanted to listen, but it just wasn't going to happen.
My brain was frying as we were speaking, and it wasn't going to hold up a conversation.
But I wanted it to.
I'm sorry my texts come 46578 hours late.
Even though it sometimes takes me a week to write back—I do read your texts when they come through. I just can't type a response right away because my 2-year-old stole my phone and has hooked herself up with an episode of Go, Diego, Go.
From the Shop
"Just because" gifts for the friends who lift you up.
And when she finally surrenders the phone, my mind is somewhere else—trying to come up with a dinner idea, asking my daughter to stop dumping water on the floor, or calling my husband to see when he's going to rescue me (aka be home from work).
I see your text again when it dings from another message, and my heart sinks.
I wanted to answer. And I love that you're still reaching out.
I'm sorry I am a party pooper.
I want you to know that I really, really, really wanted to be at your 30th birthday party. Not only did I want to celebrate you, but mama also wanted a night out. Plus I didn't want to see fabulous Instagram pictures that I wasn't in (#FOMO).
But I didn't get to go, and I'm sorry.
You see, my daughter has recently decided to stop going to sleep at nighttime. (Two-year molars, ready for a “big girl" bed? Who knows. I sure don't.)
She's been crying sad, heavy sobs when we lay her in her crib, and while I was all dressed up and ready to head out the door—red lipstick and all—I couldn't do it.
Her sobs pulled me in, and I stayed with her. I chose her over you, again.
While I know I made the right choice as a mama, I wanted to be there for you too.
Maybe next time.
I'm sorry I am a scheduling nightmare.
I want to hang out with you so bad. It's so wonderful that you get in touch with me to make plans on your day off.
Thank you for that.
“So what time would be good?" you say? Well, do I surrender my nap time/alone time to hang out? Or do I opt to forgo any “me time" today in order to hold an uninterrupted adult conversation?
I DON'T KNOW THE RIGHT ANSWER.
I do know that I want to hang out, but I don't know when.
Is that a helpful response?
I'm sorry I'm not the friend as I used to be (at the moment).
Sometimes I wish I could burst into your house for an unscheduled glass of wine and linger over interruption-free conversation.
But if I'm honest with myself, that's most likely not going to happen any time soon. All I can see on the horizon for right now are diaper changes and preschool drop-offs. But this crazy-demanding season of new motherhood I know will pass.
And I hope you hang with me through it.
I'm so glad you've stuck around through my journey into motherhood. You are my forever friend.
I'm not going anywhere (except to school drop-off, playdates and pediatrician appointments...).
And although I may not be able to be as focused on our friendship as I was pre-children, I am still just as loyal + I love you just as much as I always have.
And I'm especially grateful that you're hanging in there with me.
I will be there for you every step of the way when you have your babies. No judgments, no off-limits questions, no hesitation when you need a favor. You've been so kind to me, so patient with me—and I owe you one, girl.
You mean the world to me.