If there is a parallel universe to the dating world for married people with kids, it is making mom friends. For the record, I hate using the term “mom” or “mommy” to describe anything other than myself. But sometimes it is a necessary modifier, and here there is really no way of getting around it. In my 9 years and 7 months of being a parent, I have discovered that finding great new friends is as rare as finding a guy you’d want to date more than once (or twice, or hell for like six months because let’s face it, you were kind of a sucker for losers once).

My intro to platonically sweating women started when my daughter was born and I took her to endless “mommy and me” lunches. I should have been put off by the name, but I was keen and thought I was being proactive or something. The law of numbers – I foolishly thought – would dictate that I would like at least one of these women. I did not. Particularly loathsome were the ones who talked about their abundant milk supply, but that’s a different post entirely (read: still scarred by breastfeeding). I kept going back because, well, that’s what I had done with men when I was single. I was repeatedly reminded that most people generally suck, but week after week I trekked to 104th and Broadway, hopeful. It took a while, but even I, hot to trot on the friendship front, threw in the towel after three months. Okay, actually what happened was I went back to work, otherwise who knows, I might still be at those events. Leading them, even.

Flash forward to the following summer when my daughter was toddler and I was still an eager – earnest if you will – new-ish mother who was determined to make friends. Sure, “mommy and me” hadn’t worked, but I had made other friends in my life, what could be so hard? You may recall me from your own newly minted days at the playground: I was the one pathetically trying to make eye contact with any woman (aka you) in the vicinity with a like-aged child. Or hell, a child under the age of four. Let me tell you, while I was not so good at men rejecting me (I would not handle tinder well, like, at all), I got good at rejection from women. Most of my targets looked away, possibly unaware of my intention, possibly alarmed, possibly actively scared. I rolled with it. I was like the passenger on the plane that you pray doesn’t talk to you but does. A few of these women felt bad for me – or perhaps were also eager and naive – and  struck up conversations. None of them were to be my friends.

Finally I realized that a) I didn’t like that many people (see: most people suck) and b) women could smell desperation just like their male counterparts. When I say I”finally” realized, I mean maybe two point five years in. I was a little dense and had developed a thick rejection skin. So, I tried to slow my roll. I dialed it back. I wouldn’t stop my pursuit, but I would also let them pursue me. I figured I was cool (by my own assessment), I would meet folk one day. And I did.

I narrowed my focus to the women I might actually have something in common with other than, say, having kids. I chose carefully: Were you thinking of moving to the suburbs (out). Did you refer to yourself in the third person as mommy whilst talking to adults (out). Was small talk easy or did I find myself talking about the weather (again) (in). Did you at least pretend to get my sense of humor (also in). Could you handle that I had an edge (aka could be a little, well, let’s call it “verbally observant” about other people and their foibles) despite my eager to make friends outward self? (definitely in, and if you participated in said observations, marriage material).

It wasn’t far from my dating checklist. And it wasn’t immediate. But then I found my crew, and like my husband, they accept me for who I am, judgey (I mean observant) eager beaver and all. I’m not going to say that I don’t still have “mom friends,” that I don’t still date around a bit. But that “mom friend” group is separate and distinct from my friends who are moms. Thank goodness.