Down with OPB

Are Other People's Babies ruining your life?

by Kris Frieswick

I don't have children, and there's a reason for that. It's not that I don't like kids. They're cute, they're adorable -- heck, they're the next generation. I fully intend to have some the minute I'm done having fun.

Unfortunately, many of those with whom I have been having fun have gone and gotten knocked up. I'm not surprised, of course. I'm in my 30s, as are my friends. We'd love to wait until we're 50 to procreate, but Mother Nature, that despotic bitch, is having none of it. I figure I've got a few years of child-free fun left, but my friends have decided not to call her bluff. As a result, I am now suffering from one hell of a case of Other People's Babies (OPB).

If you're over 30 and do not have children, you have probably already experienced OPB, although it can strike the child-free at any age. OPB is the damaging effect that other people's babies have on your social life. If your most recent party ended an hour earlier than your parties used to start, you are suffering from OPB. If your only plans last Saturday were a one-year-old's birthday party, if you have purchased more baby-shower gifts than six-packs in the past six months, if you can't remember the last time you stayed up past 1 a.m. . . . well, you get the picture.

OPB usually begins with a brief euphoric feeling when a friend or relative announces she's pregnant. This joyous feeling quickly becomes anxiety -- the result of spending time with your pregnant friend, who just doesn't seem as clever as she once was. (This is due to the debilitating effects of "Mommy Brain," an actual medical condition in which the IQ of a pregnant or postpartum woman plunges to preschool levels.) Then, the severe OPB hits. The most profound symptom of this late stage of the syndrome is a sense of complete abandonment that occurs when the child is born.

My own experience with OPB started in earnest a year ago, when the first rash of pregnancies hit the happy, bustling place formerly known as my social life. My exposure to OPB up until then was extremely limited. My child-free friends and I lived lives of spontaneity and revelry. Then the announcements began, but none was as devastating as the one from my best friend -- we'll call her Jane.

"I've got some news for you," she said on that fateful morning, "and you can't say anything bad, only happy, okay?" I've always been a little leery of conversations that begin that way. "Okay. What?" I asked, gritting my teeth, preparing for the worst. "I'm pregnant," she said.

Wow, I thought, the worst. She was my confidante, lifelong friend, party partner, shopping companion -- and now, in an instant, it seemed she was already gone. I tried really, really, really hard to work up some happiness, but all I could muster was, "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God."

She immediately sensed my concern, perceptive woman that she is. That's when she gave me what we OPB survivors call the "I'm different" speech.

"I promise I won't be like those other women who disappear once they have a baby," Jane said. "I'll still keep up with my interests, and we'll see even more of each other than ever."

With this speech, and its demonic variations, pregnant women set up unrealistic expectations of continued friendship. Then, when the baby comes, they realize they don't give a rat's ass about "interests" or seeing more of their friends. They disappear from your life and become mammals whose main purpose is to ensure the survival of the species. It's an important job, and I, for one, thank them. But damn it, while my best friend was striving to be the best mammal she could be, who was going to be my best friend? I prepared for life without her.

Shortly after Jane gave me the news, pregnancy announcements washed over me like drool. Seven women, all good friends, announced their condition in the week prior to my annual Christmas party. I proceeded with my party plans, unaware of the effect OPB would have.

The party invitations read "9 p.m. to ???," which meant things were supposed to get rolling at 11 p.m. and last until 4 a.m. The party night arrived. At 7:30 p.m., the doorbell rang. Four pregnant couples stood on my front porch, flavored seltzer in hand. By 10:30 p.m., they and the rest of the pregnant party guests had left, and my party died at midnight. (On a positive note -- pregnant party guests mean no leftovers.)

Impossibly, things got worse when Jane had her son. Phone calls, a simple way of keeping in touch with the new mother, became an exercise in self-flagellation.

"How are you?" my friend asked during one conversation a week after the birth.

"I'm fine," I said, "except I had a bit of a car accident today. I'm okay, but the guy I hit had to be taken to the hos . . . "

"Baboo, baboo, does 'oo like that?" my friend said into the phone.

I paused. Had I missed something? Then came the blood-curdling screech of a hungry child on the other end of the line. I had officially dropped off my friend's radar screen.

"How are you and the baby?" I asked, defeated. "Oh, fine," she said. "I haven't slept in a week, and my breasts are leaking all over my shirt right now. Let me just put the phone down for a minute so I can open my shirt to breast-feed." Fifteen minutes later, with the sound of suckling in the background, I realized she had forgotten I was on the phone (Mommy Brain) and I hung up.

This was the lowest point for me, I think. I felt abandoned, alone, defeated by an opponent with a pacifier. I was being overtaken by a tide of offspring crawling toward me like a great sea of adorableness to claim what was left of my social life. Maybe, I thought, OPB is Mother Nature's way of saying, "Hey, the clock is ticking, sweetie, and the biological sun has almost set."

That was six months ago. Now, all the babies are born and I do my best to keep in touch, visit often, and bring pre-made dinners. I try not to yawn when the conversation turns to day care and breast pumps, nor talk too enthusiastically about my weekends in London and LA. I spend more time with the few child-free friends I have left, and we're having a blast. But it's different, and slightly sad. In a way, I wish I could join this new little clique of procreation that my friends have formed. I miss them all. But I'm still not ready to give up my social life. I assure you, though, when that time finally comes, Jane will be the first one I call.

Of course, I'll get her voice-mail.

Kris Frieswick is a finance-magazine editor and writer living in Newton. She recommends Diaper Genies as a baby-shower gift, and she can be reached at krisf1@gte.net.