'Six years ago, I wrote about losing my best friend to motherhood. This is where we are now.'

Almost six years ago, I wrote this story about my best friend giving birth.

In it, I spoke about my worry that I was losing her forever - that our lives, once so intertwined that we were frequently mistaken for one another at university events, would start to peel away in different directions and never stop. I wrote about my joy at meeting her newborn, the most perfect little girl, but also how that joy mixed with a bittersweet understanding: she had a big job to do now, and where our priorities might once have lined up scarily closely (study law, go to parties, watch Dance Moms in our pajamas with a bottle of Passion Pop), that wouldn’t be the case for quite a while.

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Even then, I knew I wanted kids, but not in the near future. I wasn’t worried that I’d never join her in the motherhood bubble, but in retrospect, I was mourning the fact that we’d lost the opportunity to join it together. I was saddened by the thought that we wouldn’t be able to force our first-borns into being best friends (and/or romantic life partners - I’m nothing if not an optimist). I missed the late-night phone calls we never got to have, both of us kept awake by crying newborns, and the maternity leave we’d inevitably line up perfectly (because that’s how you think the world works when you’re 22). I grieved the family holidays and joint birthday parties that it felt like we might never have.

In retrospect, I can see that so much of my fear was built around the narrative that motherhood fundamentally changes you. When I wrote in that article about my relief at hearing my best friend’s voice on the other end of the phone after giving birth - a palpable lightening I remember vividly to this day - I wasn’t exaggerating. It really did seem to me that a wall might have been erected between us that might be impossible to tear down. I was scared she’d stop loving the things we’d once loved together, no longer caring about the issues we’d bonded over at uni. I could see, or I thought I could see, the way things were facing into the distance to make room for a new world, where our friendship would never again have number one billing. 

Of course, things in our relationship did change. I’d be lying if I implied they didn’t. Being a mum to a newborn, and then a toddler, and then a child, totally shifts your priorities, and rightfully so. There were days, weeks and even months where everything about our respective lives felt out of sync.

But fast forward to this year, when my own son was born, and my perspective has completely changed. 

When my best friend’s daughter was born, I was so distracted by the disappointment that we wouldn’t go through the trenches of parenthood together; it didn’t occur to me how valuable it would be to have someone on my team who’d already fought in the war.

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It is indisputably valuable to have "mum friends" at the same stage of motherhood as you are. That’s the whole premise of a mothers' group, after all - a bunch of women you can compare and contrast experiences with day-by-day, hour-by-hour and sometimes, on the very worst days, minute-by-minute.

But when the minutiae of motherhood gets overwhelming, my best friend is the one I turn to. The only person guaranteed to tell me she can’t remember exactly when her daughter started to roll both ways, or pull herself up to stand, or crawl, or walk, or talk. The only person who can tell me, no offence intended and none taken, that it doesn’t really matter when we hit those milestones, as long as we do eventually, and even then that there’s simply no point worrying about it now. The comfort I take from knowing that today’s stresses will be tomorrow’s vague memories is enormous. 

Every day, I count my blessings that I have an expert to turn to in every aspect of parenting, who can help me sort through things that actually matter (like pushing me to return to doing things I love after my son was born) and the things that don’t (like taking Instagram-perfect photos for every milestone). 

More than anything, it turns out that my biggest fear - that we’d drift so far apart we’d never come back to each other - was completely unfounded. As it happens, in the end, it’s made us even stronger.

For all my worrying about age gaps and finding ourselves in different "stages" of parenthood, I truly didn’t expect that watching our kids spend time together would be one of the great pleasures of my life. The care my best friend’s daughter takes in looking after and playing with my son, her "cousin", couldn’t be further from forced. It’s a testament to the type of child she’s raised - patient, loyal, playful, kind, and willing to embrace anyone into her "family".

Jodie at Max's first birthday. Image: Supplied.

On the weekend, my son turned one. It was the culmination of the biggest, most intense year of my life, but also the very best. We celebrated in the way I had always imagined, with my best friend and her daughter by our side. (She technically did forget what time the party was, but nobody’s perfect). 

Since I wrote that piece in 2016, so much has changed, but the substance of our friendship hasn’t. She is still my go-to, my cheerleader, the person I send texts which begin "I understand this is ridiculous, but...". No issue is too small, or too big, or too silly, or too serious. We’re just here, for each other, like we always were. 

I hope I can be half the mum she is. 

Feature Image: Supplied.