Freya
The three boys barrel off on their balance bikes far ahead of us both. Freya stands alongside her upset three-year-old who’s frozen still on the path. She cries with total defeat with deflated shoulders, the way that toddlers of that age do, yelling, “they’re too far awayyyyyyy…”
Freya starts the negotiations with Fleur, a tactic that she knows she’s striking toward an impenetrable wall, but one she begins anyway (the fruitless toil that a toddler-parent endures 100 times per day). “Why don’t you start trying to move your legs to catch up? Sweetheart, they’re only going to get farther away the longer we stay still right here.”
More crying ensues. Fleur sinks further into the sidewalk. My legs start jogging to catch up to the three kids who have quickly made tracks an uncomfortable distance from where the stand-off began, and I shoot Freya a knowing look. May the odds be ever in your favour, fellow parent, my pursed lips say. Freya’s face says back, thank you. You get it.
I do get it. Combining our brood of four children always antagonises the chaos at the same time as mitigating it. We have identical babies, each of our children born 12 days apart. She had Arlo 12 days before I had Vincent. I had Sullivan 12 days before she had Fleur. We went through separation during the same calendar year, but met later on, her story about 6 months further along than mine at the time. From day one, we started sharing our scorecards with alternating jaws dropping in awe of the similarities. She is, what I’ve heard the internet refer to as, ‘a unicorn mum’. The absolute trifecta of 3 qualities: kids are similar ages, living near one another, and a woman you want to hang out with even without your children. Jackpot.
One of my major fears before becoming a mother was the trepidation of being swallowed up by the task of it. That, in having children, I would forfeit my membership card to having any other personality, personal taste, or sense of style. I avoided what might’ve been fruitful arenas for camaraderie like mothers groups, thinking that there would certainly be no one I’d care to commune with there. I thought, if I’m going to do this the way that I want to do it, I’m going to do it alone.
In December 2022 (by the mercy of a god I no longer pray to), a man I was seeing at the time said, “my friend Freya is a mum… she’s got kids similar ages to yours, I think. I should give you her number.” Blegh. Not my scene, man. Just because I have kids does not mean I want to spend my time sitting alongside someone else who had babies at the same time as me and wants to compare scorecards for how poorly they’re sleeping, who’s pooping where, or what size shoes they’ll be into next. It seemed bleak.
On a night off of kids and out of pure curiosity, I sent her a WhatsApp message.
“…he says we have similar aged kids,” I said.
“Yeah I’ve got a almost 2 and almost 4 year old,” she said.
“... I’ve got an almost 2 and almost 4 year old…” I replied.
When we realised both of our children were twelve days apart, we started comparing other staggering similarities. I was two years older than her, she was two uni degrees ahead of me. She sounded bloody cool. No mention of a nappy or a sleep schedule in sight in that first conversation, so I eagerly instigated our first hang.
I don’t remember much about that first meet up except the awe I felt when I watched Freya mother her babies. It was like watching myself. We used similar strategies of gentle-parenting-until-we-burst, lots of cuddles, and a deep sense of humour about it all. We were able to talk about ourselves as individuals, our lives as mothers, and our dreams for the future. She was stunning - visually and intellectually- and I was enamoured with her immediately.
We traded war stories about navigating dating apps alongside the extreme relief combined with grief that we felt when we traded our kids back to our co-parent. We suffered the whiplash of living a double life when we were on/off our children, but bought special, oatmeal linen sheet sets to adorn our bedrooms when peanut-butter-covered-hands weren’t present in our homes. We both laughed as we bonded over never getting to finish a whole meal when we’re getting our kids out the door; always half pieces of toast laying abandoned in the chaos, only to find and finish later. We intrinsically understood the experience of the other woman (the other single mother. The other woman). It was immediate. And it was utterly moving for me.
We were on similar paths of rediscovery after living in the echo chamber of having these four children, but doubled up with navigating separation and walking into the confidence oasis of our 30’s. We felt equal parts confident and shaky in our senses of self, some days stronger in motherhood and other days stronger in womanhood. We were both dating multiple men, paying rent to live alone, and finding ways to feed our babies good food on our single incomes. We felt like we were hobbling through it, though in hindsight we were only beginning to thrive.
Cut to 2024 when our kid care calendars have been aligned to match one another’s – so when she’s got kids, I bring mine along, and when we don’t have them we celebrate ourselves together as women with two hands and happy bodies.
Once we arrived at the playground destination with all four kids and all four balance bikes, Freya and I collapsed on the bench for 2 whole seconds before my child called out for a push on the swing and her child called out for assistance on a rope ladder. Big sighs, our non-stop mum legs heaved us up from rest and beckoned us back to the babies that needed us. We struggled to keep our conversation going through scattered sentences volleyed across the air of the playground, though both being used to the luxury of speaking full sentences being removed from our days with the kids, we just gave into it.
No conversation complete and no kid happy with the playground we’d chosen, we began the trudge back up the hill that brought us to this spot. Freya started off with Vincent, Fleur, and Arlo barrelling up the incline with speed and confidence. But then, it was my three-year-old’s chance to crack it.
“They’re going too faaaaaaasssttt…” Sully cried from his stagnant bike.
“But sweetheart…” I began, before smiling to myself in recognition. I looked up toward where Freya was, shepherding the other three kids, and knew that it’s my turn for this. She shot me a knowing face of sympathy. You get it, my eyes said in return.
This morning, after completing my frantic commute to drop off the kids before working from home, I stumbled through my front door in a heap. The coffee bubbled in my empty stomach and begged for relief for my adrenal system. I looked down on my dining table to see a half-eaten piece of toast and I smiled.
Parenthood of any variety can be an absolute isolating slog. But to know that there’s someone out there just like you, with two kids of the same age, whose nights are also bookended with worry for her children’s lives, who’s standing on the sidewalk with her 3-year-old throwing a tantrum at the same time as yours, and whose breakfast is also one piece of toast eaten across three hours…
I may have given up the chance at more connection with more beautiful mother friends along the way, but the universe handed me Freya as the most beautiful, intentional gift. It’s as if it saw my resistance, my fear-based independence, and my small perspectives on what motherhood could look like and chuckled to itself lightly, saying, “I’m about to blow her fucking mind.” And blow my mind, she did.
I love this, Andi. And I love your friendship with Freya. ❤️❤️❤️