Last March I had food poisoning for the first time in my life. It was the most horrible night of my life; akin to having an alien taking over your body and reject all the food you’ve ever digested, including any remnants on your intestinal wall. Having to watch it all come up was the most frightening experience.
For a few days after the women I knew who were mothers suggested things to ease back into normal dietary practices; they could handle the details of color, texture, frequency I would never had shared with my single friends. I was grateful because bizarrely I had only thrown up once in my life – a non-drinker even through college – and that over two decades ago when I was eight years old.
The camaraderie of mothers extends to talking about conceiving. The same friends whose intrusive questions and jokes annoyed me to no end before I was ready to take on the thought of motherhood were now the ones I turn to for advice on how things go, like how many months it took them to conceive after they stopped birth control, or when to grow concerned about an irregular period.
I feel slightly embarrassed that the same information I now rely on I wouldn’t have had access to if my friends hadn’t gone ahead and bitten the bullet as mothers. I am so glad that there are others to rely on down what feels like the infinites of space although it’s the oldest profession since the start of life.
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