Plan to make lots and lots of mom friends

“Hi, nice to see you again. If you want, when Luka’s better we should arrange a playdate (they can play and we can have coffee or gin – winky face emoji)? Nice to have a friend nearby. Anyway, have a good week. Cheers, Leigh”

In my mind the monkey covering its face emoji was loudly shouting at me “with all due respect, that was so lame and needy”.

This is an example of me “making friends” on WhatsApp. When did I regress to become an insecure fifteen-year-old boy with an unreliably high pitched voice and braces trying to flirt with a girl in my class via paper aeroplane note? Beats me but it has happened.

For me, and hopefully, many others, making friends is flippin hard. I have often laughed with my friend Lisa (the one who moved to the States) that, for us non-cool, non-PTA, non-soccer, non-perfect moms, trying to make friends is as bad as dating. So much so that we are thinking of registering our new business venture – Friendr – I mean why should only the romantic heterosexual and homosexual relationships get an app? Moms need to find soulmates too. And what better way to find them than with a swipe to the left or right?

I have recently been pleased to see this affliction is not mine and Lisa’s alone, others suffer too. The symptoms of this illness are not dissimilar to dating in high school – overuse of emojis, uncomfortable jokes, awkward handshakes that could have been intended as a peck on the cheek and embarrassing WhatsApps that reek of trying too hard.

Your momates are critical to surviving motherhood. And their selection is as important, if not more important, than the search for your spouse. These friends will “get you” more than anyone else can, not even your life partner will get you like these friends.

They share similar parenting styles, outlooks on life, values, dietary habits, deep-seated beliefs, confidence levels, social calendars and attitudes towards motherhood in general.

But if you are anything like me, socially awkward, not particularly cool or stylish, have a habit of making cheesy jokes and are often overwhelmed by bouts of rage and sarcasm, then finding your momate might be a tad challenging.

I cannot comment on the success rate of the cool PTA soccer mom types in terms of forming social groups but from the outside looking in it looks a lot easier to find your momate when you are a more mainstream mom.

Ultimately, I have a sneaky suspicion that we all end up crying in the shower, in our parked cars or in the tinned goods aisle of the supermarket, as we feel isolated and alone in our journey more often than we would like to admit. But I can’t help but feel high school style popularity is still to a degree in play in Momland.

I am not that person who needs or wants an endless list of friends, I do need and want some sort of list of friends, even if there is only one name on it, as long as there is at least one friend that constitutes my ride-or-die.

I watched a Melissa McCarthy movie recently, and in it, Maya Rudolph plays McCarthy’s character’s BFF, she defends her with lioness fierceness at her friend’s divorce mediation hearing. She throws shade at the ex and the woman he shacks up with. She encourages her to follow her dreams, even when those dreams lead her down a road of a whole bunch of crazy. When she is hit in the vagina by her friend’s fiercely stray squash ball she laughs in pain and commands her friend to apologise in person to her vagina, Julie, and as this momate thing is a two-way street, her friend bends over and does just that. She laughs like a hyena when her friend phones in the middle of the day to share a tale of a library stacks sexual encounter with a boy half her age. I want that. The friend, not the public copulation.

I want a Thelma to my Louise. A Dionne to my Cher. A Skinny Becka to my Fat Amy. A Meredith to my Christina. A Willow to my Buffy. A Rachel to my Monica. An Amy to my Tina. A Romy to my Michele. A Blanche to my Dorothy. Or even a Rose. Who am I kidding, I would even settle for Sophia.

In truth when considering why I have struggled to find my momate, I have come to the conclusion that it is less complicated than social structures and hierarchy, a matter of cool versus uncool, the reality, I fear, is far less dramatic and not nearly as cinematic. It boils down to time and energy.

Relationships are built on time and energy, the giving of timing, the giving of energy. Time and energy spent being thoughtful and considerate. Time and energy spent on being there, on being available, on listening without interrupting, on being devoted to that person when they need you. Time and energy spent making that person feel special and loved.

And this is where every momates’ good intentions pave the road to broken dreams and abandoned playdates, where what was once a promising coupling fizzles out quietly and unspectacularly, almost as if it never happened, almost as if you imagined the spark – like a damp squib. Why is this the destiny for most budding momate relationships? Because the one characteristic that all moms lack is the one characteristic that a strong and rewarding friendship needs – time and energy.

How can a mom truly commit to time for anyone other than her own creation, her own monster that is a time and energy vampire, sucking her dry day in and day out?

If we have to do the math, we cannot commit to listening without interruption because our child will interrupt at some point, we cannot commit to being thoughtful when we struggle to remember our own birthday, never mind someone else’s. I for one know that I do not have any time nor energy to spare. And if I do is it enough to sustain a meaningful relationship? Or do I spend the little bit left over to look after myself and retain a tiny glimpse of me before mom me.`

Perhaps in some parallel universe where time moves more slowly, my momate and I are living our best lives and making it work. Maybe they’ll send a sign or a postcard.

Can we ever really keep our kids safe?

This belief was quite quickly extinguished by all that I have described to this point. I couldn’t keep her safe even when she was inside of me, never mind when she was brought out into the wide open world.

We are not in control of a lot of things that endanger our children throughout their childhood and later lives, least of all illness.

As I sit writing this book, this morning I was faced with a dreadful reminder that the belief that a parent is somehow superhumanly able to keep their children safe simply not true – I cannot keep my child safe. Short of bubble wrapping her and locking her in a nuclear fall-out shelter, you cannot protect your kids from everything this world threatens to hurt them with. You cannot be there for them every second of every day. You cannot keep them safe.

At 11:15am on a normal Tuesday morning, I received a message on the WhatsApp group set up by her class teacher that included all the parents of the children in Isabelle’s class – The Green Class. This is not unusual, Teacher Lisa, often sends updates, reminders, pictures and notes on the group chat.

The message read: “Hi Parents, just to let you know that all the children are safe. We are on lockdown with all the children inside. We will keep them inside until we get the all clear from the police. Leslie Rd by Design Quarter (the shopping centre directly opposite the pre-school my child attends) is closed. No need to fetch the children at this time. We will keep you posted.”

I read and reread the message, not really comprehending the meaning of the message. I was the first parent to respond, “What are you talking about?” Shortly afterwards, my message was followed by a rally of beeps. “What do you mean?”, “What is happening?”, “What’s going on, why are there police at the school?”, “More information, please!”.

I did what any self-respecting millennial mother would do, went to a credible news source – Twitter – and searched for mentions of Fourways. Only one tweet came up, “What’s happening in Fourways? Cash in transit heist?” accompanied by pictures of a police helicopter landed in the middle of the intersection right by my daughter’s school.

The WhatsApp group then sprung back to life, with answers from other parents and the class teacher.

“Shoot-out at Design Quarter”

“Cash in transit shoot-out”

“Lots of shots fired, a police helicopter flew over the playground. Not sure the exact story yet.”

Twitter then delivered more information and more bystander footage of the scene. It seemed to have been a car chase between the police and armed burglars (who had just fled an armed robbery in a neighbouring suburb) that had come to ahead near my home and kid’s school. All the robbers were apprehended, two of them sustained gunshot wounds and one of the centre’s security guards was shot in the fracas. As far as the reports indicated no-one was fatally injured.

The children were fine. Everyone was safe and Izzy was collected by Mildred, her nanny, at the normal time, she fell asleep in the pram, woke up had lunch and played without a care in the world – none the wiser of the danger that unfolded no more than fifty metres away from her earlier in the day.

That morning’s series of events reminded me of another experience, except this time I was revisiting it anew from my mother’s perspective. Thirteen years ago, I was living in London and working in Westminster. It was a normal Thursday morning, as I walked up from the underground and my normal morning tube ride on the Jubilee Line.

The actual tube journey had been uneventful, just like every other day before it for the past ten months – platform queues, sardine filled carriages, armpit height standing space only, airless dark tunnel stops for leaves on the track somewhere along the 36.2 kilometres of track and my new silver iPod mini filled with illegally downloaded music.

I walked my normal route past Big Ben, past the parliamentary buildings and down the uneven side streets of one of the older parts of London. Arriving at my office building – Her Majesty’s Royal Court Services. I began my day a civil servant, an administrator, as usual by doing time in the post room, sorting post, once finished I made tea and returned to my desk to begin the tedious task of data entry.

We all had our tricks for checking our mail and wasting time browsing the internet without arousing the suspicions of our slave-driving boss – Angela. She reminded me of the Velociraptors from the first Jurassic Park. Silent. Stealthy. Sneaky. Deadly. But that morning just before nine ‘o clock Angela looked less Velociraptor and more terrified mouse. As she and some other serious looking people moved around the open plan office the noise began to surge like a Mexican wave in a sports stadium, as people began to talk. There had been an incident on the underground, and it was closed until further notice. No-one seemed particularly worried, there were often incidents on the tube – albeit none as seemingly serious as this. But our naïve minds could not comprehend anything sinister to be at the root of the problem.

We turned on the radio and heard in shock as the news anchor explained that there had been three explosions at 8:49am on the underground – Circle line and Piccadilly line. Authorities were asking citizens to remain calm, stay indoors and off the streets. The cause of the explosions was yet to be confirmed. Initial reports suggested that there had been a massive power surge on the Underground’s power grid that had caused certain power circuits to explode.

I quickly sent a message to my housemates to see they were ok. They were. None of us seemed to grasp the significance or weight of the situation. I checked my email and my dad had emailed me, from South Africa, saying that he and my mom had heard there was a problem in London, some sort of explosion. Was I ok? What was happening?

I responded with a brief email, that was skirting annoyance, to say I was fine, I didn’t know what it was all about it seemed like some sort of technical issue. And that I would call mom later when I got home.

An hour later a bus blew up in Tavistock Square. It became crystal clear this was not a mistake, not some technical disaster, this was planned and directed, it was intended to terrorise and hurt innocent people. This was an example of a term that had only entered the collective language of the man on the street in most parts of the world four years earlier when we watched a second plane fly into the twin towers in New York City – this was a terror attack.

At this point, London went into self-defence. All public transportation modes in Zone 1 (central city) were shut down. We were told to make our way home, either by foot or taxi (good luck with that) or get to Zone 2 or 3 transport routes. I SMSed Michelle, my housemate and closest friend, she worked on the other side of Westminster in Soho, we agreed to meet at Big Ben and walk home together along the Thames.

Then I tried to call my mom, having by now well and truly lost my snarkiness and replaced it with the overwhelming desire to collapse in a ball and shout – “I want my mommy!”. But my call would not go through. I tried to send a message, no luck. I tried to call again. Not working.

Others in the office were experiencing the same thing. It was later reported that by 10am many of the mobile networks were unable to keep up with the volume of activity on their networks. There was also speculation from the BBC that the telephone system was shut down by security services to prevent communication between the terrorists and the use of mobile devices in detonating any more bombs.

After walking 3km alone, I found Shell, on the banks of the Thames and we discovered that several boats had been put to use as an impromptu ferry system transporting people from the centre of London to outlying areas along the river – whether these boat owners volunteered or were sequester, I have no idea, nor do I care. We got on the first boat that had space and we were taken to Canada Water which was a short and non-high profile walk to our house. We were safe, we could breathe again, we could stop pretending to be brave. Besides, no terrorist would want to bomb Canada Water, unless it was someone with a violent hatred of the Canadian geese that cluttered the waterways there.

I was only able to contact my mom in the afternoon. And while I had been kept busy navigating the streets and riverways of London to get home. While my friend and I had had the comfort of not being alone, by having a hand to hold. My mom and dad had none of that. They were 13 087.9 kilometres away with no contact, no information and no idea of whether I was safe or in danger. Dead or alive.

And the same applied to each and every one of the “children” with whom I shared my home – three Australians, one New Zealander and one Brit who parents lived outside of London. That day the city was filled with scared children missing them moms. And the world was filled with worried parents beating themselves up for not failing in their responsibility to keep their children safe.

I can only imagine what that felt like. And yesterday morning I got a taste of what it had felt like for my mom over a decade ago and many times before and since. Helpless. Useless. Defenceless. As the desire to keep her child safe was once again proven futile and impossible.

I would like to say that being a victim of a terrorist attack is highly unlikely, but in today’s day and age, it’s not as unlikely as one would like to believe. This year alone, according to Wikipedia, there have been 901 attacks around the world and almost 5000 fatalities.

Thankfully, Southern Africa is not a hotbed for terrorist activity, so us moms don’t have to worry about it as much as say a mom living in France or even worse Afghanistan.

But I don’t have to tell anyone living in South Africa, what our country lacks in acts of terrorism and mother nature, like hurricanes, earthquakes and tornados, it makes up for with horrific crime statistics.

I am not going to go into the stats, cause those of us who live here know them all too well. But suffice it say that every day our children leave the house – at whatever age – they stand a good chance of falling victim to crime, and that crime is often violent.

Part of the criminal danger that we feel we must protect our children from is that of predation. I have used this term as a holdall for many threats to children – from sexual abuse to trafficking.

Recently my Facebook feed has been overflowing with reports and videos of children being abducted, which obviously has caused widespread panic amongst parents. Some of these are absolutely true and my heart breaks for their families, but some are fake and spread in order to ignite fear and anxiety, for what purpose I cannot begin to fathom. But I also cannot fathom a young man stepping onto a train and blowing himself and a few hundred people around him to smithereens.

And this lack of ability to understand what makes evil tick is the crux of why the belief that we can protect or keep our children safe is misplaced – the world is often a crazy scary place, filled with people trying to make it burn and they have a far greater capacity to devise evil ways to hurt and torment than you could ever think of to guard against.

Surely, the best way to protect is to teach and the best way to keep safe is to empower. This is a philosophy that I first heard ten years ago, long before Izzy was even a twinkle in my eye when I heard of a woman named Lenore Skenazy. She had been dubbed by the American media and seemingly, the public too as America’s Worst Mom.

What was her crime? She published a column in the local newspaper describing her decision to let her nine-year-old son take the New York City Subway home alone. She had raised her child on the philosophy of free-range parenting, which purports that a child who has never had to face strangers or walk alone or is far more likely to fall prey to predators as they lack the experience and protective instinct to recognise danger.

She essentially was a proponent of street smarts for kids. She even went further to say, modern parents need to fight against our popular “belief that our children are in constant danger from creeps, kidnapping, germs, grades, flashers, frustration, failure, bugs, bullies, men, sleepovers, unstructured playtime and/or the perils of a non-organic grape.”

Her approach to parenting really resonated with me and the type of childhood I would wish for my child. I wanted my child to know greater independence and less parental oversight. I wanted her to be empowered and have more free play and less scheduled activities.

The notion of going into tiger mode and cracking the whip on my four-year-old to perfect a Brahms Concerto on the violin whilst reading two grades ahead of her age also made me feel queasy. Life is hard as an adult. Why would I want to force my child to sacrifice their childhood to satisfy my ambitions and desire for excellence and perfection? If I wasn’t able to achieve to my own high standards, why would my child?

I might go so far as to say that this insane drive is less about your child’s destiny fulfilment are more for personal vanity that verges on narcissism. Too far? Too far, ok, sorry, no more psychobabble, no more presumption.

Just the thought of helicoptering around my children and keeping one hand on them at all times to cushion their fall exhausted me. Not fun for me and definitely not fun or empowering for my child.

I know some of you are muttering under your breath – “lazy bitch”. And you might well be right. But where you see lazy, I see the space and trust for my child to take on the world in incrementally bigger steps. If being lazy means my daughter will be empowered to know her own boundaries and those of others in relation to her. If being lazy means raising a self-sufficient confident young woman who knows how to look after herself in a crazy wonderful and dangerous world.

If being lazy means my child avoids feeling the pressure of adulting’s impending hamster wheel for as long as possible and is given a pass to coast every now and then in an area that doesn’t excite her. If it means not obsessing over my child’s grade four maths mark because it will almost certainly never impact her life or future. If being lazy means not culturing my own organic yoghurt or not stone grinding artisanal flour to bake preservative free sourdough. If being lazy means letting her eat flings for supper every now and then because it’s fun and she is a kid. If being lazy means letting her watch Timmy Time and Charlie & Lola on TV every day so I can read a magazine, make a poop or just stare at the ceiling. If being lazy means leaving my child to develop her imagination, curiosity and creativity as a means to combat boredom and empty time because I refuse to entertain and stimulate her every waking moment.

Then yes, I guess you are right, I am lazy AF. I am 100% here for lazy.

But I feel like we have gone mad. I saw a quote from one of my favourite mommy bloggers turned author, Bunmi Laditan, in which she describes parenting in 2017 as “make sure your children’s academic, emotional, psychological, mental, spiritual, physical, nutritional and social needs are met while being careful not to over stimulate, under stimulate, improperly medicate, helicopter, or neglect them in a screen-free, processed foods-free, GMO-free, negative energy-free, plastic-free, body positive, socially conscious, egalitarian but also authoritarian, nurturing but fostering of independence, gentle but not overly permissive, pesticide-free, two-story, multi-lingual home, preferably in a cul-de-sac with a backyard and 1.5 siblings spaced at least two years apart for proper development, also don’t forget the coconut oil.

How to parent in literally every generation before ours: Feed them sometimes.”

I want my child to have the freedom to grow and learn from her own mistakes, to feel boredom and to stretch her imagination, to not feel the pressure of life and the need to succeed and achieve just yet. There is plenty of time for that to consumer her. I want my child to have confidence and independence. To feel she has some sort of control of her own world and the maturity and poise to accept that not everything is within her realm of control. To feel equipped to deal with life’s curveballs. To feel safe, powerful and formidable despite living in a world that is not always safe.

Maybe I am not quite free-range, because Lenore Skenazy in all her controversy and questionable practices still pitches herself as having all the answers. As know how this parenting-thing works. That her plan for raising a child is the right plan. But I call bullshit. There is no plan for parenting because a plan requires prediction and anticipation. Because isn’t motherhood all about the trial & error? The experiment? The hit & miss?

Maybe I am more of a Unicorn Mom. A mom who’s not perfect (and would never presume to think she is). A mom who enjoys the odd glass of wine or gin and tonic. A mom who has no qualms about escaping the house and her children to indulge in me-time – when she can get her hands on said mythical time. A mom who knows the only way to survive is to laugh at herself, her kid, her situation. If you can’t laugh, then you will have to cry. A mom who is not afraid to say out loud that she doesn’t always like her kids, won’t lie to herself and others about feeling #blessed every damn minute of every damn day. A mom who is not necessarily confident in herself or her decisions, but could not care less what you think of her or her choices. A mom who always tries her best and never gives up.

Yip. That’s definitely me – all magically sprinkling environmentally friendly glitter everywhere, farting rainbows and shit. I am totes a unicorn.

And my daughter will definitely be fierce enough and empowered enough to look after herself, and until then I will keep trying to never be too far from hand.