“I just love being with Spencer all the time,” she said as she crawled up the play structure, on the heels of the child in question.
I was at a neighborhood playground with a new mom-friend, our toddlers happily ignoring each other. We had met at a preschool open house the weekend before. Our sons were less than 3 months apart, we lived mere blocks from each other, she had an engineering degree from the prestigious university down the street, and she was a full-time parent. Excited to find another high-achieving mom who spent a lot of time taking care of her kid, I got her number immediately. I had so many questions for her: I wanted to know how she made the decision not to work. I wanted to know if she still had professional ambitions and, if so, how she was keeping them at bay while she raised her child. I wanted to know if the same drive and intellectual curiosity that had gotten her that degree ever made it frustrating to read the same Elephant and Piggie book eight times in a row. I wanted to ask her all the questions I’d been wrestling with for the last 21 months, questions that neither my working-mom friends nor my stay-at-home friends could answer.
Five days later, we were having our first playdate, and I was quickly learning that we might have less in common than I thought.
“I can’t imagine having another kid for at least three and a half more years,” she continued. “We’re just having so much fun.”
I looked at her as she animatedly chatted with her son. Then I looked down at mine, furiously turning the steering wheel of the plastic car he was sitting in, and sighed. I was in my eleventh hour of the day with him, and there were still two more to go before bedtime.
So much for a friend in a similar situation, I thought. I could not relate to anything she was saying.