My friend Mel was drunk. Not just normal drunk: she was Mum Drunk. The kind of drunk your friend gets when she doesn’t go out much anymore. The kind where a couple of glasses of wine, over-eagerly downed and fuelled by freedom from familial obligations, leave her giddy and breathless in double-quick time.
The next day at work, I wielded my friend’s new inability to handle alcohol like a weapon. ‘Ha, ha!’ I crowed. ‘You were Mum Drunk.’ She just smiled and ignored me.
As it turned out, Mel wasn’t drunk at all: she was pregnant again. Still in her first trimester, she’d been ordering lime and sodas at the bar and quietly pouring away the alcohol we got her. She wasn’t Mum Drunk, just happy to be on a night out with her friends. When I found out, I was as embarrassed by my behaviour as I was pleased for her. And it made me realise I’d become the kind of person who uses ‘mum’ as an insult. ‘Ha, look at your mum jeans.’ ‘Ha, that’s totally a mum joke.’ And if I ran out of specifics: ‘Ha, you’re such a... mum.’
Less affectionate than its paternal equivalents – dad dancing, dad bod – ‘mum’, when applied to women my own age who had children, had become my shorthand for ‘boring’. I carelessly flung it at them across the divide between parent and non-parent as punishment for the treachery of motherhood, not caring if I widened the gap. And I expected them to just accept it – after all it was their choice to have kids, wasn’t it?
I’ve always known I don’t want children, and in my twenties I clasped that knowledge like an elixir of youth. I saw my social life stretching out for years, my child-free status allowing me to carry on drinking, dancing and laughing into my thirties, forties and beyond.
As my friends started having children I watched their social lives shrink, safe in the knowledge that would never happen to me. Their wild nights out were swapped for afternoons at so play, their fashion-forward day-to-night wardrobes morphed into outfits to take them seamlessly from office to nursery. As their children and responsibilities grew, my friends’ priorities shifted too. Facebook profiles changed overnight to baby photos. Hen dos and milestone birthdays had to be held close to home in case of emergencies, and nights out were carefully rationed, precious babysitting hours being reserved for partners, not parties.
To an outsider, these changes looked terrifying. Becoming a parent seemed to mean losing part of yourself along the way – and they didn’t even care. One friend swore when she was pregnant that she’d never change her profile photo to one of her child. When the inevitable happened, she wailed, ‘I’m sorry, I cracked!’, while holding the tiny hand of her beautiful daughter, beaming, not sorry at all.
The more friends I ‘lost’ to parenthood – mainly because I was that person who couldn’t be bothered to drag themselves to the suburbs to visit – the more self-righteous I became. As I saw it, their lives had been sharply curtailed while I was still enjoying my freedom. I interpreted every small sigh of nostalgia over grown-up cinema trips or uninterrupted bathroom trips as burning envy of my lifestyle.
I looked at my friends and how they’d adapted to lives thrown up in the air and turned upside down and wondered what had happened to them. Instead of trying to understand – or, God forbid, be supportive – I saw something to make fun of and point at accusingly. Mum drunk. Mum jeans. Mum.
But then, last year, another of my friends, Helen, got pregnant. She was the girl I turned to for a good night out, who I thought would always be there to party with. Although she wanted children, it seemed to belong to a far-off future. So when she told me her news I was genuinely thrilled – but also genuinely annoyed. Who would I hang out with now?
At 38, I’d become the minority among my friends without even realising it. During the years I’d been congratulating myself on being able to stay forever young, it was my social circle that had actually been shrinking.
As Helen’s bump grew, I realised that, while I’d been busy sulking about losing each friend to motherhood, they were looking forward – to new friendships forged through shared experiences and new milestones. Things I’d never get to join in with. I’ve never regretted my decision not to have children, but it’s scary to see the people you care about moving on and leaving you behind. It was no excuse, but I wondered, for the first time, if fear was driving my rolling-eyed scorn.
Helen gave birth to Finn in January 2017 and handled it with aplomb. As she’d decided to remain in London as long as possible, and I was generously prepared to travel within Zone 1, it meant spending regular time with one of my mum friends for the first time. And I finally saw how wonderful and di cult and terrifying and joyous parenting can be.
Babysitting, too, was a huge eye-opener. Barely sleeping in favour of checking Finn’s breathing every half-hour and marvelling at how dangerous a tiny one-bedroom at can be when viewed from 10 inches off the floor, I was left exhausted after less than 24 hours. at Helen had done this for eight months seemed impossibly impressive.
I also saw that, yes, she had changed – but not in the ways you only see when you’re judging someone’s choice of elasticated trouser. She was stronger, calmer and more patient. I saw that bending to impossible demands without breaking is a strength, not a weakness. And how brave it is to love your life, yet choose to take a step towards a new one you can’t possibly comprehend until it begins.
My mum friends are part of a club I’ll never be a member of. They’ve left me behind, but the least I can do is give them the credit they deserve. I still use ‘mum’ to describe them, but it’s used as it should be: with affection and admiration, not as an accusation. Now my eyes have been opened, I hope to see more of them and try to bridge the gap I built between us. And when I do, we’ll get thoroughly Mum Drunk – together.