By JO CASE
When I was thirty years old, the first of my friends became pregnant. My son was seven. At last, I thought.
The other mothers in my son’s schoolyard mostly left me alone: I was different. They had mortgages and talked about renovations; they swapped recipes and tips for avoiding traffic. I rented my house, didn’t enjoy cooking, and rode my bicycle everywhere (because I didn’t have a driver’s license).
I longed for a friend I could talk to about the foreign land of motherhood, from the inside.
My pregnant friend had been my manager when we both worked at a city bookshop. Since then, she’d moved into publishing. She was hard-working and ambitious; that person who was always the first to arrive at (and last to leave) the office, who talked about work over drinks and on weekends.
My first clue that we would not, after all, be companions in motherhood came when she showed me the room she had prepared for the baby. There was a carefully stocked bookshelf, bursting with children’s classics. (So far, so familiar.) The room was colour-schemed and decorated with lovingly sewn cushions and appliquéd lamp covers. A cupboard was stacked with cunning little hipster clothes, ordered by colour and artfully arranged, as if for a photo shoot.
“I know it’s silly,” she said, her pride dissolving into embarrassment. “I’m sure it’ll be a mess once the baby arrives.”