Helena Andrews-Dyer - The Mamas: What I Learned about Kids, Class, and Race from Moms Not Like Me

White girls made me do it. All right, made could be a pinch too much. Sounds a bityou know. So, no. Convinced? Cajoled? Conjured? Because surely only a crazy person under the influence of blond spell work would respond to a WhatsApp invite to meet up before 9 a.m. and below 40 degrees thusly: Well be there!!!

Blame it on the exclamation points. Their thirsty asses are the reason my fifteen-month-old daughter and I ended up bouncing for warmth around a socially distant circle of mostly white moms and their babies in the park formerly known as an open-air drug mart near the erstwhile frat house we call home. Robynthats my kidis here for none of this. The child is screaming her head off in an obvious attempt to alert CPS, while I try to make small talk about the pre-K lottery with the think-tank director who essentially leads this gang of moms I got jumped into a few years ago after the birth of my older daughter earned me the right to membership. Its in this moment, as my babys cheeks ice over with tears and I go on and on about ELA scores, that I realize were like a thing, me and these moms, and also that me and Robyn should probably leave before her fingers fall off. Wait, did I mention that Im Black? Like, Black all the way through (whatever that means). And that the Blacks dont do this? The cold, I mean. Oh, and that stereotypes are still a thing?

Because if our collective common sense wasnt innate, then I wouldnt feel so shamed for depositing a popsicle disguised as a baby into the PPE-swathed arms of Miss Kim thirty minutes later. Miss Kim is the masked fairy charged with keeping my kid alive and who, Im pretty sure, doesnt know my first name. Today Miss Kim is wearing a unicorn onesie with her Senegalese twists done up in the front like a horn, and when I hand her Robyn, I play off my babys shrieking as monokerophobia. Im two blocks away and this close to getting away with it when my back pocket starts barking.

Hi, Mom! Shit. Mom? This is Miss Kim! Robyns teacher? Weve spoken almost every day for a year and yet Miss Kim never fails to introduce herself anew over the phone, as if I could forget her in the tetherball-string length of time we spend apart.

Yep, I reply, trying to sound super casual while hoping against hope that Robyn has an unexplained butt rash and not, like, hypothermia. Everything okay? See what Im doing here? I know. I know my child is cold down to her bones. I know she is pissed about that fact. But I dont want Miss Kim, a middle-aged Black woman who embraces Spirit Week with the fervor of someone in possession of multiple adult-sized onesies, to know that I know. Because I dont want Miss Kim to know that I did it for the Mamas, a group of mothers I met on Facebook filled with the type of girls I used to make fun of in college and who, decades later, have clearly led me to forsake my Black-ass common sense.

Weeelll. Miss Kim is hesitant, afraid to wag her finger at me although I deserve it, because the three hundred dollars we shell out a week keeps her flush in furry one-pieces and whatnot. Her little arms and legs are like ice! She just wont stop crying! Poor thing! Was she outside for a really long time this morning? I know Miss Kim wants to suck her teeth.

This is the part where Ia fully grown woman who does not own onesies in her size and whose older daughter, Sally, believes chill pills are daily vitaminsconsider lying. I cant tell Miss Kim that I was quite literally chilling with the white girls. Shed have my badge! Because it is cold today. So frigid, in fact, that when I told my husband, Rob, that I was strongly considering heading to the park to hook up with the stroller cartel for a pandemic-friendly mom thing and then walking the extra twelve blistering blocks to the Baptist church that houses our daycare, his response was an incredulous, For what? The better question would be for whomthe Mamas, Robyn, me? Im still trying to figure out the new math involved.

Is the woman who has her baby out in the cold for no other reason than to cling to the fast-escaping steam of human connection the sum of all these partsparenthood, race, class, statusor have they subtracted her? The real problem to tackle was a puzzle: How did a Black mom fit into the nearly all-white definition of motherhood that dominated the streets of her rapidly gentrifying D.C. neighborhood? Were these women Id risk frostbite for my friends? Parenting colonizers? My competitors? Consider this book as the word problem to end all word problems. In the end, an answer should be forthcomingor at the very least Ill show my work.

But first, theres this icy toddler to contend with.

Miss Kim, still trying to solve the mystery of the frozen baby, has had a stroke of genius. Blankets! she shouts. Well try to warm her up with blankets.

This woman is trolling me. Im sure of it now. Because Black moms should know better. We see the temperature drop to she needs a coat coat, and then its a mad dash from inside to inside.Outside is a nonstarter, something to be avoided at all costs when the air suddenly goes visible. Lets say it has something to do with our equatorial origins or perhaps just the good sense God gave us. Either way, Ive failed on both fronts, and Miss Kim, the same woman who must remind me to bring wipes for Robyns asshole at least three times before it sticks, wont let this shit go.

Matter of fact, she underlines, Im going to put some in the dryer right now. That should do it. She pauses, waiting for me to fill up the rest of this conversation bubble with self-flagellation.

Heres what I say: Ugh, my poor little Robyn Bobbin. Im sure shell be all right. Thanks for calling. Have a great day. And heres what I want to say: The child is fine! The Swedish leave their children outside in subzero temperatures while they get their hair done. It was in Time magazine. Google it! Im a good mother! Whats even worse is the fact that my hypothermia hypocrisy is very hard-won.

See, in the Before Times (pre-children, prehaving cares in the world, pre-Covid), whenever a happy tribe of unapologetically white Maclaren moms crossed my pathbogarting the sidewalks, infiltrating cafs, touching things with their breeder handsId do the sign of the cross, roll my eyes, and seal it with a heavy sigh. There but for the grace of God go I. I saw none of myself in them. White parents doing pirouettes with their hatless children on snowy sidewalks? Id press my lips together, shake my head, and turn to Rob: Ooowee, white people just love the cold, dont they? Ummhmm. Brandishing my imaginary fists at these insane parents, Id TED-talk them in my head: Get that baby in the house! Its freezing out! What is wrong with you?