Why Moms Need a Secret Handshake

I was standing in Target the other day, enjoying a blissful, solitary trip to buy something we didn’t need, plus a cart full of other things we didn’t need. I was somewhere between the shoes and the Christmas trees when I heard the tell-tale shrieks of a toddler in the throes of a full-blown meltdown. We’re talking a walleyed, shoe-throwing hissy fit. 

I turned the corner and saw a young mom frantically trying to quiet the noise-making one while simultaneously keeping a silent-but-deadly one from picking up all of the candles on the shelf by their lids. She was mortified and frazzled and looking around anxiously, waiting for judgy stares and impatient sighs from other shoppers who came to pay higher prices in exchange for Starbucks and peace and quiet. She honestly looked close to tears, and I wanted so badly to reach out and hug her because I had been her so many times before. I wanted her to understand that whether she chose to duct tape her kid’s mouth shut or bribe him with whatever high-fructose corn syrup-containing treat she had stashed in her purse, there would be no judgment from me.

In that moment, I became overcome with the conviction that moms need a secret handshake.

I mean, we’ve all been inducted into this cluster-eff of a club via episiotomies and C-sections and adoptions. We’re all running around like chickens with our heads cut off, faking it until we make it and trying to keep our tiny people alive and mostly non-dysfunctional. It only makes sense that we should have a way to signal solidarity to the other she-warriors who are in the depths of the trenches, fielding blows from the screamers and the candle smashers. We may be outnumbered and at a significant tactical disadvantage (face it, they’re younger and faster), but we’re in this thing together, surviving and sometimes even thriving — particularly when our comrades are willing to reach out and pull us a few steps forward. 

So if you were the mom in Target wondering why a stranger held up a Katniss Everdeen three-finger salute* and hastily threw her emergency bag of (mostly crumbed) Goldfish into your bewildered hands, just know that I think you’re doing really great. Keep on fighting the good fight, friend.

*I may or may not have also done the whistle.