Growing up and becoming a mother complicates your friendships.

Relationships with my friends were so easy and self-sustaining before I had Maggie. I could pop out on a Tuesday for beer and trivia without a second thought, but for the early morning meeting I had the next day. I could meet my friends for a walk and have dinner and an intimate, in-depth discussion any day of the week. I knew what was going on with everyone. I knew what struggles and successes each of my friends was experiencing. It made me feel good to know about what was happening in their lives. I could jump in with an e mail or a happy hour at any given moment and ask the right questions. The kind of questions that showed I was involved. The kind of questions that showed I cared.

That changed drastically when I become a mother. As a mother who works forty plus hours a week, my free time has become an endangered species. The esteem I have for myself as a person is directly proportionate with the amount of time I spend with my daughter. Any time I embark on an activity that takes me away from her, I feel pulled in two directions. Any time I miss important time and events with my friends, I feel pulled in two directions. My daughter tends to be the thicker side of that wishbone, and she usually wins. When she doesn’t, I am guilt-riddled. Who am I kidding? I feel anxious either way. I just feel less anxious when I feel like I am being a good mother to my daughter.

Consider life as a pie chart, dividing slices of time. My chart was once neatly divided into six slices. There was my job, my relationship with Jim, my family, my friends, my hobbies and life maintenance (bill paying housecleaning stuff). Having Maggie removed a large chunk of that pie, and I am left with two measly slices to divide into what remains after work and baby. That means the time I used to have just for my friendships now has to also be allotted to my husband, family, friends, hobbies and life maintenance. Those pieces get pretty darn small. And I end up feeling guilty.

No wonder I feel pulled in different directions. No wonder I often feel like I am performing marginally at best in so many areas of life. I sometimes feel like I am failing my friends. I sometimes feel like my friends are failing me. I am robbing Peter to pay Paul, and I am coming up feeling pretty empty. I just don’t have the resources to do it all well. And it makes me feel terrible. Motherhood sure can feel like a lonely planet.

So I have these tiny slivers of pie, and I have to be very, very careful what I do with them. I want to use them sparingly. I want to give them to people who understand how precious they are.

I notice how fragmented the lives of my friends and I have gotten as we’ve grown older and ventured on to different paths. The varying stages of our lives add to the confusion and the set the stage for gigantic potential hurts and misunderstandings. This is the stuff that creates chips on shoulders the size of Brooklyn.

Are you married? If the answer is yes, have you ditched all of your single friends? Can you still remember the exhilaration and fear of your single days? Can you still relate at all to the part of yourself that used to be there? Do you still provide a shoulder to cry on for your unattached friends? Do you still go out once in a while and have fun like you used to? Are you still really there for your friends? Do you feel guilty for moving forward without them?

Are you single? Have you written your married friends off completely? Do you treat them like fluff-brained husband worshipping has-beens?

Are you a mother? Do you remember how hard it was to see your friends drop off like flies? Do you recall how you couldn’t help but feel a little let down when your friend had a baby and everything changed? When she couldn’t pick up and meet for a drink when you had a bad day? When she got so busy and overwhelmed in her new role as a parent? Was it hard not to feel let down and disappointed? Did you try to be patient and understanding, and did you still end up feeling a little hurt? Do you remember what it felt like to be left behind? Do you feel guilty for not having the time to be the kind of friend you want to be? Do you feel deserted by your single friends? Do you feel like a has-been?

If you don’t have any children, do you treat your friends who are mothers like colossal bores because they now live in the suburbs and drive minivans? Do you avoid parties where children are welcome? Do you try to accommodate the limited schedules of your friends who are mothers? Are you willing to hang out with their kids just to spend some time with them? Even thought it’s hard to get a sentence in without interruption? Does your voice contain an air of condescension when you speak to them about current events and politics? Do you minimize their accomplishments? Avoid them? Do you try to put yourself in their shoes?

If you are a mother who works outside the home, do you judge your peers who chose to stay at home with their kids? Do you feel judged by them? Are you jealous of the time they spend with their kids? Do you have a chip on your shoulder? Do you look for reasons to criticize their lifestyle because you feel insecure about your own choices? Do you find that most of your friends are other working mothers? Do you feel guilty for working?

And before anyone gets any ideas about finding innuendos in the aforementioned ponderings, I have personally been guilty of each of the offenses I write of at one point or another.

I am referring to my own inner dialogue.

My own perspective is tainted by my personal experiences. I see things as a formerly single and now married, working mother of one who used to live in the city and sold out to the suburbs. I admit that I occasionally see things as one-sided from this vantage point. I try not to, but it’s my life, and I need to accept my choices. To be happy with my choices, I need to be okay with what I gave up. So sue me. I don’t want to dangle from a precipice with my eyes taped open, forced to witness all of the Sex and the City debauchery and Tuesday night power walks I gave up to be here. I don’t want to have my nose rubbed in my choices like a bad puppy dog. I don’t want to be subjected to that any more that I want to bray to my friends about how meaningless life was before I had Maggie (it wasn’t).

Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it. My feelings get hurt, and I am not sure if it’s due to oversensitivity on my part, or gross negligence on someone else’s part. And I have been guilty of inflicting pain myself. Sometimes it feels like I’m walking a minefield. The slightest misstep could leave some adored friend feeling slighted. And the gap widens. It’s tricky business, these friendships. I get very nervous navigating the terrain sometimes. I just can’t help it.

The way I see it, it’s about respecting people’s choices. Most importantly, it’s about being kind.

When all I have to offer to my friends is one skinny measly piece of pie, I want them to appreciate it. It feels awful when I can see a friend’s disappointment. When I see them thinking “So that’s it? That’s all I get?� When I start getting written off because of my small slices, it makes me sad and I end up feeling unappreciated. That slice may not be big, but it’s all I have.

At a certain level something has got to give. I am not used to doing things on my terms. I have historically been a people pleaser. I will take the shape of damn near anything to keep the peace. Like a dysfunctional lone wonder twin, I swallow my anger and adapt because I am terrified of making waves. I am starting to realize that I can’t be a people pleaser, and lead any semblance of a reasonably organized life. Because those bitter pills just linger and fester in your gut, and if you wait long enough, they can erupt. And it’s painful when that happens.

Sometimes I have to say “This is the best I have for you right now. If my little slice disappoints you, I’m sorry. It’s all I have. If you don’t like it, I don’t want to hear about it, because this is all I’ve got. Try the shop down the street.�

It helps to face up to negative feelings and try to air them in a constructive way. I am the first to admit that I am still learning, and I screw up, and when I do, it’s hard not to be horrified by the messes I manage to make.

Maybe it’s time to get on some anti-anxiety meds. And believe me, that is currently under consideration. These are my friends after all. Maybe if I stop judging myself so harshly I will have a little more fun with them. I might get better at keeping in touch. I have never been much of a person to talk on the phone. But I can see how a few e mails here, and a phone call there could all add up. I want to get better at that.

It’s hard to reconnect when you feel partially responsible for the widening gap between you and a friend, and when you are angry about their part in it too. I don’t want to acknowledge that I have let things so. I don’t want to acknowledge that I’m frustrated or hurt by someone else’s lack of understanding and sensitivity. I don’t want to admit that I am angry. I don’t want to get smacked in the face every time I try to make amends for my part. Sometimes people take that olive branch and use it to poke your eye out. Gratuitously. It is messy business, to say the least.

Sure life was easier when we were all young and single. We all lived similar lifestyles back then. Friendships thrived on automatic pilot. It gets real complicated real fast when people’s lives start morphing into drastically different shapes.

A friend of mine told me their father had a quote that went something like “The older I get, the fewer people I like, and the fewer people like me.� He seemed to be okay with that. To a certain extent, I am too. But I treasure my friends more than I might let on. That’s why I find myself agonizing in this annoyingly ambivalent manner.

So, what I can offer up is my little tiny slice of pie. If you like it, and tell me so, I will bend over backwards to try to scrape a few extra crumbs on your plate when I can. If you complain, you might just not get anymore.

It might not look like much, but so much of me goes into each little piece.