I got up at 5am that Friday, hoping to walk the dogs, shower, and get myself and my two-week old baby ready for New Mom Support Group at the hospital at 9:00. “I can do this,” I thought. “People take babies out of the house all the time.”

We did not make it. Something about a diaper blowout at the exact moment I had the baby, the keys, and the diaper bag in hand and was holding the dogs back with one leg while opening the door in my attempt to escape.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I had been looking forward to this for… well, two weeks.

I sat down on the floor and held my baby and just stared off into space and waited for the day to end.

So the next week, I was like, “OK, I can do this. For reals.”  Through sheer determination (or, let’s be honest, blind luck), I was the first person there.

When the nurse showed up, I introduced myself, all smiles, pretending like getting out of the house with a baby was no big deal.

“How’s feeding going?” She asked me. And I broke down and spilled the whole story in one breath: “I do not have enough milk and I’m taking fenugreek but it upsets my stomach but I take it anyway to try to increase my supply but I feel sick all the time and the pediatrician told me that my baby was failing to thrive and if I did not supplement her, she would–she would–” I broke off.

And just as I started hyperventilating and ugly crying and looking for a baby wipe for my face, another mom walked in–dressed in interview clothes and wearing make-up and jewelry and dressy shoes. Her baby had a hair bow that matched her outfit. My baby was in a plain onesie and a diaper. No shoes, no socks, and definitely no hair bow. It was a warm day, and her hair was sticking to her forehead because I drove a Honda Civic, and it didn’t have vents in the backseat.

All the moms in that group exuded class. They had brand new mini-vans and brought their babies into the room in designer strollers with detachable car seat baby carrier thingies.  I had carried my baby in my arms. I looked in my diaper bag for some shoes, but the only things in there were diapers and a bottle. Something told me that you didn’t give babies bottles at New Mom Support Group.

I did not belong here.

And yet, I couldn’t stop going. Watching perfect moms was addictive. Every one of those moms had it together. They did not arrive in crumpled clothes with burp stains on their shirts. They entered the room bursting with confidence. They looked fabulous. And their babies looked fabulous.

One day, they asked me to join them for lunch after the session.

I tried to imagine it: They are at Village Grill downtown under the shade trees, with their strollers parked in a row and their babies on their knees while they sip iced tea and nibble at their arugula as their gold bracelets sparkle in the bit of sunlight dripping through the shade from the trees.

I did not want to embarrass them by actually going, yet I longed to watch them in action.

I went to Mommy Group faithfully until my baby aged out. I tried to keep my mouth shut and my eyes and ears open. I kept hoping I would learn how to be a mom.

But only my baby could teach me that.