Sori Bauman

It was nice to get dressed up again.

After months of maternity clothes and endless weeks of sweaters and skirts that were constantly getting spit up on, it was a close friend’s wedding that finally had me smiling at the mirror again.

I had spent time on my makeup, a rare luxury with a clingy five-month-old, and my sheitel was freshly done. My dress looked great (finally lost that baby weight), and while it was the first time I was leaving Tova for so long, it was for a good reason. The last girl from my group of high school friends was getting married—and I was the most newly married of the bunch.

I left instructions for the babysitter, texted my husband that I was leaving, and drove off to the hall.

My friends met me at the door, and we exchanged hugs and excited greetings. Since we lived in different cities, reunions were rare. We headed into the main hall together, and I marveled at the nature of high school friendships. We hardly saw each other, but when we did, we just slipped right back into our comfortable relationship.

I sighed contentedly.

It would be a nice night.

After the chuppah, my friends and I made the expected stop to the bathroom to blow up the balloons, pull out the arches, and check on all the requisite shtick best friends must have.

We left the bathroom, entered the lobby, and suddenly, I found myself standing alone, my friends having deserted me for young men in black hats—their husbands. Both husbands happened to be friends with the night’s chosson, hence their presence at the wedding.

For a moment, I blinked, and then I smiled and pulled out my phone. Sure enough, there was a missed call from my own husband, checking in to see how I’m doing. As I clicked the green button and moved off to a quiet corner, my mind spun back two years.

***

It was another wedding, one of the many I attended during that time period. The kallah was a friend who ranked somewhere in the middle of the hierarchy of closeness that translated itself into the fact that I was required to show up and be there for most of it, but my attendance at the simchah wasn’t accompanied by the level of excitement and emotion a closer relationship might have engendered.

I showed up at the glittering hall after a tiring 45-minute drive with my mood already slightly deflated. I’d had a long day of teaching and had barely had time to rub on some makeup and throw on a dress before flying out to my car. And, I noted to myself as I eyed my reflection in the gleaming full-length-mirrored lobby, I hadn’t had time to refresh my hair. It didn’t look terrible, I had curled it that morning before school, but when my friend embraced me, the fresh waves in her sheitel didn’t make me feel better. Married people had it easy—at least in that department. Just throw on a wig and head out.

I laughed and talked and repeated wacky stories from behind the teacher’s desk as I greeted my friends, but when we sat down at the table after the chuppah, the conversation inevitably drifted toward supper and schedules, and I shrunk into my place, feeling like the little girl who had snuck onto the adults’ table.

Don’t be ridiculous, I remonstrated with myself. These are your friends! They want to talk to you. And it was true. They did. But I kept watching them throughout the meal. There was that serenity, that glow, despite the hassled look some of the wore—remnants of exhausting pregnancies and colicky babies. There was that assurance that someone was waiting at home for them, the phone calls they went off to the side to make, smiling.

I didn’t have that. And while I knew that one day, I would, it was hard to be without it.

When the conversation erupted into a heated discussion about booking babysitters, I pulled out my phone and texted a single friend. I didn’t belong at the table as a part of this discussion.

Not every wedding was like this. Some were easier, some were harder. Sometimes I felt so out of place among the glowing married girls, I ended up leaving early, while at others, I had such a great time with both unmarried and married peers, I stayed until bentching.

But always, as I drove home in the dark, fighting to keep my eyes open, the reality hit me. No one knows when I’m getting back. If my car stalls, chas v’shalom, in the middle of the road, I have no one to call, because no one’s waiting for me. No one will greet me—however sleepily—when I crack open the door at one in the morning.

I didn’t like to think of myself as lonely. I had a hectic job, an active social life, and a wonderful family that I was boarding by.

But when I attended a wedding, my single state hit hard.

***

I spoke with my husband for a few minutes as he caught me up on his day and assured me that the baby hadn’t made a sound from her crib.

Then, smiling, I joined my friends at the table. I slipped into my seat and allowed myself to appreciate the moment, to feel that that fullness, that gratefulness of being on the other side.

I had never attended a wedding while married with a baby, and so far, I was loving the experience.

“I need to see pictures of your baby!” the friend on my right exclaimed. Not a very hard request for a first-time mother. She cooed over the latest pictures of my baby trying to turn over while I took her phone and marveled at how big her kids had gotten.

We talked about formula and sleep training, topics that had once bored me to tears but I now found incredibly absorbing, and I secretly thanked Hashem again. When she’d had her first, I had just finished a disastrous dating episode, and marriage and children had never seemed further away. Now, we were in the same place. I was crowned with a sheitel. I had an adorable baby girl who livened up my nights and sweetened my days.

Once upon a time, I had dutifully asked about my friends’ kids because I had to, not because I was eager to know. That reality, too, was far from me. Now, I reflected, it’s different.

And then I noticed my friend on the left, playing awkwardly with her phone. Something about her expression was so familiar to me, and I suddenly wished I’d been blessed with gallons more tact and sensitivity.

She’d been married over two years with no baby in sight. I davened for her every day, but now, in this crucial moment… I’d failed.

I quickly changed the subject as gracefully as possible, regaling them with my latest teaching woes until the music signaled our cue to get the arches.

The glowing kallah ran in, beaming, looking beautiful and excited, but as I threw myself into the dancing, enjoying my last close friend’s wedding, I thought about how happy I was not be her in place. I was so grateful to be where I was.

I stayed at the wedding until almost the very end, fulfilling my duty as a good friend, but it wasn’t much of a sacrifice because I can’t remember the last time introverted, hates-going-out me enjoyed a wedding so much. I was acutely aware that the break from routine was nice, the chance to see my friends was amazing, and the dancing was a lot of fun, but my experience was enhanced by the fact that I was married. I had a baby. I’d been so, so blessed.

When the valet finally came around with my car close to midnight and I kicked off my heels before setting the GPS, I thanked Hashem for the dozenth time that night. Isn’t that the point of remembering the past? So I can feel grateful for the future?

But as I merged onto the highway, I remembered my friend’s uncomfortable face as I gabbed about my baby. I thought about the girls sitting next to us with ringless fingers, listening as we talked about Shabbos plans. I bit my lip when I thought about my classmate, whom I’d invited to join me for the drive but had flatly informed me that she wouldn’t be attending.

She hadn’t given any reason for not coming, only quipped that she didn’t have a date, but now, driving home after the most pleasurable wedding experience I’d had in years, I thought I might know the reason why.

I whizzed down the nearly empty highway, to my husband, to my child, to my home and resolved never to forget the pain and the longing I once experienced.

Not just because I should remember to be grateful for what I currently had. But also so I could stay sensitive to those still experiencing it.