“Hi B! I know it’s been a while, I just wanted to say Happy New Year and congratulations!

“Hi O, thanks, nice to hear from you. Happy New Year to you too.”

“Wow, a new baby, that’s so fantastic. How is D liking his new little brother?”

“Well he’s taking some time adjusting. We’re in the middle of potty training, and F’s arrival has set us back a lot. Now we’re discovering that having accidents in the house is a great way to get Mommy’s attention away from the baby. D Sr. is getting pretty tired of all the rugs we’re ruining.”

Discussions of potty training I can handle, though I’m a little freaked out by all the “we’s”. I choose not to comment. “Did you get to celebrate New Year’s at all?”

“Oh we had a quiet night, put the babies to sleep, then I was up for a 3 A.M. feeding. I’m breastfeeding so no champagne. How about you?” From her tone I can tell it’s one of those questions she feels obligated to ask, but has no real desire to know the answer.

“I went out with Boyfriend, we had planned to keep it pretty chill but somehow it ended up being one of epic nights, we got home around 7 in the morning. It was fun, nice to just cut loose, we’re both been so stressed with work.”

Silence. “Yes well, I suppose you two would want to start the year off like that.”

I’m suddenly furious without knowing why. “Uh, what exactly does that mean?”

“Just that you two seem to enjoy that sort of thing, it makes sense that you would want to keep living that way for another year.”

Ok, now the fury is explained. “Let me get this straight, you’re standing in judgment of my ‘wanton and debaucherous’ lifestyle? Is that it?”
I immediately regret my confrontational tone, but her judgment clobbered a nerve I hadn’t known was already sore. “B, that’s such a joke and here’s why – 99% of my waking hours are spent in front of a desk trying not to get yelled at by a bunch of assholes, and the other 1% are spent trying not to screw up my relationship. Think what you want, but don’t make me out to be some whorish libertine. And even if I were, save your judgments.”

“I’m hardly saying those things, I was commenting on facts which you previously stated. I’m sorry if you’re finding your career difficult, but you speak as if there are no alternatives. I broke out of all that years ago, I suppose you think of it as judging but I’m simply observing from a distance. I hear from all of you with these complaints as if other ways of life don’t even exist. I can’t believe I was the only one to find them.”

“Oh come on B, you didn’t ‘break out and invent young motherhood.’ That would be like me going out tonight, having a threesome and then declaring it ‘avant garde.’ It’s total bullshit – the concept has been around for centuries. Getting married and pregnant at 23 doesn’t instantly lift you to some higher plane of being where you can look down on the rest of us.” Ah well, if this is going to get nasty, I may as well say my peace. Maybe she’ll surprise me by laughing and we can both apologize and get the hell over ourselves.

“That’s disgusting. And you don’t have to swear at me. I’m trying to make a point and of course you just insult me.”

“B, I’m not trying to insult you. I just feel like every time I talk to you, it involves you finding a way to attack my lifestyle. No one likes to be judged.”

She’s crying now. Shit. I made a new mother cry. Add it to my extended list of hell-worthy offenses. “Well how am I supposed to feel, isolated with two small children while all of you are gallivanting around with your boyfriends and high-powered jobs and living the life we were all groomed for, it seems like from birth practically.”

“You’re smarter than I am, you always were, I always envied you – I don’t think I’m better than you because I went off to law school while you decided to have children. And I’d be willing to bet a lot that other people feel the same way.”

“Yes you do feel superior, don’t patronize me.” Bitterness pierces her tears. Now I want to cry.

I’m silent – is she right? Am I harboring a sense of superiority, a conviction that feeds off these conversations about potty-training and isolation like an emotional tapeworm? It was present a few years ago, when I heard about B’s first baby. But now I look at both of us, women of the “new millenium,” products of twenty years of top-level education with a lifetime of expectation and possibility attached, and we’re both sitting here, feeling miserable and trapped, wildly judging each other’s lives in order to lessen our own sense of inadequacy. What a ridiculous waste of energy. It suddenly occurs to me how much happier we’d both be if we shut the hell up and stopped being right.