Save your sympathy sweetie

Our waitress couldn’t have been more than 19 years old.

Kim and I were at the least objectionable of the three licensed restaurants at a suburban mall, chosen because it had lots of parking and was equal driving distance for both of us.

The server’s hair was perfect, her thick makeup expertly applied. She was bubbly and enthusiastic – too bubbly and enthusiastic. Her forced cheer made it clear she had us pegged.

Oh God, a couple of moms on the town - poor things. This must be a big night out for them. Better not let them sense my pity or they’ll start acting bitchy.

And I looked across the table at Kim, who I first met almost a dozen years ago when she was a 21-year cocktail waitress and I was bartending at the infamous nightspot in our home town. And something unspoken passed between us.

Kim knew what I wanted to say.

I wanted to say that my best friend and I hadn’t always hemmed and hawed before deciding it would be okay to split a half litre of wine. That we hadn’t always stopped to consider whether a fried appetizer would wreak havoc on our stomachs.

I wanted to say that ten years ago we would have been cracking wise about music and clothes and flirting with the hotties at the bar, not hauling our kids’ pictures out of our wallets and telling story after story about the funny things they said.

I wanted to say that 10 years ago we wouldn’t have planned this night weeks in advance and we wouldn’t have been caught dead in this cheesy bar, in this cheesy mall, no matter how convenient and plentiful its parking.

I wanted to say that 10 years ago I would never have glanced at my watch and winced to see that it was already 9:45 p.m.

But I didn’t say anything. Neither did Kim.

We just smiled at each other. Happy, secure, amused.

Because our waitress couldn’t have been more than 19 years old.

And she couldn’t possibly know that the middle-aged moms splitting an appetizer and a half litre of wine would have given her pert, little ass a run for its money in their day.

Harder

It’s not as hard as everyone says it is.

People just try and scare you.

I was prepared for much, much worse.

Such was my take on being a mother for the first year or so of Graham’s life. And at the time I meant it, I really did.

I was ready to become a mother. I was way past ready. And I was prepared to give myself over to the demands of a child. I had absorbed countless horror stories about the all-encompassing, unrelenting demands of mothering and adjusted my expectations accordingly.

I fully expected that the first year or so was going to be a horror show of jumbled hormones and unimaginable fatigue. I fully expected to fall down the rabbit hole. I was prepared for the worst.

But the worst never really arrived. The early months weren’t exactly easy, what with worrying over the state of Graham’s health, but his day-to-day-care and feeding was surprisingly smooth.

He went from breast to bottle without blinking an eye. He was rarely inconsolable. And most significantly, he slept through the night at six weeks and was doing it regularly at two months of age.

Being a mother isn’t impossibly hard, I concluded with relief. It’s just hard.

But here’s the rub: it stays hard.

Two years on, it’s still hard.

I am impossibly spoiled: I know that. My child is healthy. I am healthy. Rob is an involved husband and father. I have a great job with an ideal childcare arrangement and Graham is close to four grandparents who dote on him.

But there are days (and nights too) when it is just plain wearying, this business of always putting another human being first. And there are times when someone you love is struggling (no, I can’t and won’t write about that here) and it is even more wearying because you can’t even put yourself second.

You know what I’m talking about, all you women out there.

Women gather up the frayed edges of their family’s life and sew them together every single day. Women ferociously love and mother and plan and nurture and organize and soothe and quiet and make things better.

That’s what women do.

That’s what we all do, no matter what our circumstances. Whether our children are sick or healthy, whether we have one or seven.

And I was right to think that it’s not as hard as everyone says it is.

It’s harder.