The Childless Friends

I was asked recently if our generation is just a bit too soft - moaning about motherhood like it’s some kind of hardship. You know the type: classic “back in my day” commentary, served with a side of smug. The kicker? It came from someone without kids. Which is a bit like someone who’s never stepped foot in a kitchen giving you tips on how to survive a dinner rush at a packed restaurant. Cheers for the input, but I’ll pass.

Having mates who don’t have kids is like an initiation into parenthood. It's the ultimate reminder that your life is now dramatically, irreversibly different. When I had my son, many of my closest friends weren’t even considering babies yet. And that was fine, there was no pact that we’d all sync up our wombs like some sort of dystopian book club. I was definitely going early. In London, having a baby before 35 is basically a teen pregnancy. I’m actually surprised no one gave me a reality show.

And then we left London, just to top off my early-bird performance. Suddenly, everyone else was still living the dream, and we were in the suburbs, changing nappies and calling ourselves DFLs (Down From Londoners, for the uninitiated). We became those people. The ones who talk about the city like we’d survived it. “Did we grow up here?” Oh no, we’re from “London” cue smugness. Get a grip, 2017 Laura!

I’d stalk my friends’ Instagram accounts, often in tears, feeling replaced and left out. For clarity, this wasn’t their fault. Could I have gone on the girls’ trip to Ibiza? Absolutely not. I had a baby who needed me. Did I still want the invite? Yes. Was I acutely aware of my own ridiculousness? 100%. Were my friends allowed to make new mates? Obviously. Did I ugly cry into my baby’s sweet-smelling head anyway? Oh, you bet.

Because here’s the thing: when you become a parent, and your friends aren’t there yet, you’re thrust into a parallel universe. It’s like being born again - or dying, if we’re being melodramatic (which I will always be). Everything changes, and you can’t explain why. Your worlds don’t just shift; they separate, no matter how hard you try to keep them tethered. It’s not just the big things, like being tied to the baby monitor instead of a bottomless brunch, but the little things too. Suddenly, you have less in common. Their wild Saturday nights are your early Sunday mornings with Bluey. And no matter how much you love each other, it’s hard not to feel the distance growing.

So what advice would I give to the first-time mum surrounded by childless friends? First, let yourself mourn. You’re not just grieving a life you’ve left behind - you’re also grappling with a sense of displacement among people you love. Second, know that this weird, off-kilter phase doesn’t last forever. Friendships can drift, but they can also find their way back. Don’t take it personally when they make new friends. It’s okay to miss them. It’s okay to be angry. And it’s okay to leave the door open for when the time is right to reconnect.

Take comfort in the fact that your friendships are evolving, not disappearing. Some relationships will naturally fade, but others will deepen in ways you couldn’t have imagined. It’s a bit like re-potting a plant. Awkward at first, but with a little care, it might just thrive in a new way.

Now, to the childless friends… if you’re somehow here reading this, a few notes. First, please still invite us. Even if we say no 19 times in a row, don’t assume we’ve stopped wanting to be included. We’re just... busy. Like, can’t-sit-down-until-9-p.m. busy. Second, don’t tell us we’re moaning too much about motherhood. If we’re moaning, it’s because we’re too tired for toxic positivity. Third, keep messaging us. Even a quick “hey, how’s it going?” can mean the world.

And if, someday, you decide to have kids, remember us.