Finding connection with strangers at 4am

How a weekly meetup and a late-night new parent group chat became my lifeline during the fog of early motherhood

It’s August 2023, I don’t know exactly what day it is, but I know it’s a Tuesday. I have a three week old. The unpredictability that is having newborn is something I didn’t prepare for. I prepared for the sleepless nights, the cycles of eat/sleep/repeat. I prepared to be parked on the couch nursing or holding a sleeping baby for hours on end. But no one told me how unpredictable those cycles are. What worked one day—no, one hour—doesn’t work the next, and frankly this rocks me to my core more than I expect.

There’s definitely a little bit of bliss too, and the level of love I have for this kid this quickly is unlike anything I’ve felt before. But I now understand what people mean when they say they are ‘in the thick of it’. I didn’t know it then, but in those moments of unpredictability and exhaustion, a little group chat became a lifeline.

In the thick of it!

I’m in a Signal group with other parents who live in Brooklyn with July 2023 babies. Niche, I know, but this group has over two hundred parents who live in Brooklyn with July 2023 babies in it. So maybe not that niche. Pre-July, the group was fairly quiet. Some pleasant introductions, a baby clothing swap and a few other meetups (none of which I attended), last-minute hospital advice. Late June hits and slowly but surely the group is flooded with birth announcements but not much else. I patiently wait my turn to share mine, and then at some point after July 21st, I do.

The chat quickly becomes active. Parents sharing questions, experiences, commiserations. I slowly get to know who is who, by their name and their child’s name—often formatted as their last name in Signal. Mine reads ‘Julie L (Nolan🐣)’.

“What are you guys doing about the witching hour,” one parent asks. That sounds incredibly dramatic, I think. I look it up. Phew, we’re not going through that. Two days later, we go through it. “This witching hour is no joke,” I say. “Hang in there,” the parent from two days ago says. “It’ll get better, it did for us”.

That happens a lot, and is the benefit of having a child born in the second half of a month where you have parents with children born in the first half of the month—a few weeks (or a few days) make a huge difference at this age.

It’s 4 am. One of the parents shares they’ve been awake for 3 hours with a baby that absolutely won’t settle. “I’m sorry,” I type, as I nurse my own newborn for the third time that night. More words of solidarity come through. Many, many of us are awake. I was feeling incredibly lonely before this little chat — I still feel lonely, don’t get me wrong, but I also feel less alone.

The chat evolves into I don’t remember what. It could’ve been breastfeeding recommendations, “we just went through this, here’s what worked for us”, more questions about to do when xyz thing happens, late night shopping finds. This becomes a common occurrence in the group chat, so all of these nights blend together. And for months, I was never alone at 4 am.

What started out as awkward intros quickly evolved into something deeper. We were all bonded virtually by this very specific experience. And while millions of people have raised newborns, there is something about being in the trenches with others that are also in the same trenches (give or take a few weeks or a few days) that just makes everything that much more relatable. We were learning from each other, or just holding space for what we were going through (or what someone else is going through). The second-time parents almost become like older siblings. Their words of wisdom and advice cutting deeper because my god, they did this once and then decided to do it again???

As July ends, some of the parents with babies a few weeks older than mine start getting out into the world and meeting up with each other. The first week we bring Nolan home from the hospital there’s a meetup in Prospect Park, by the Picnic House. I can’t imagine being ready to do something like that any time soon. I can barely walk to our local coffee shop comfortably at this point.

But three weeks pass, in August, and there’s another meetup. It seems they’re becoming weekly. I want to feel ready to go this time. I don’t feel ready, for what it’s worth, but I decide I want to go anyway. I’m feeling stuck, like my neighborhood is a cage I can’t escape. I’m anxious and tired but I decide to go anyway.

I get myself dressed—a Hill House nap dress, so I can nurse easily, and a Depends diaper—I don’t want to ruin my Hill House dress, after all.

scenes from that first walk

I bring ten diapers and an entire pack of wipes. I have milk that I’ve pumped in case I am unable (or unwilling) to nurse at the park. I load my son in the bassinet and I almost chicken out at that point. The feelings of regret and overwhelm start to consume me. I think of the moments he’s been inconsolable, and don’t know how I’ll react if it happens at the park. I fear we’ll get stuck over there, and getting home will take entirely too long. But I still decide to go. As difficult as it is to leave the house and go on this journey, something deep inside me propelled me out that door, even if my logical self was giving every reason why it was a terrible idea.

I’m walking to the Picnic House, about a 30 minute walk, and my son starts crying. I haven’t gotten the hang of baby wearing yet so I stop and pick him up and just stand there for a maybe 1-2 minutes (that felt like ten) until I figure out my next move. We should just turn around, I think. I look at people walking by and think He is crying so loudly. They know I have no idea what I’m doing.

I look at the map and realize we’re over halfway there so it doesn’t make sense to turn around. I find a bench and nurse him instead — I throw a cloth over my shoulder to hide. It takes a few moments but we get into a groove. He eats, settles, and lets me put him back in the bassinet. I decide to keep moving, and he slowly falls asleep.

I’m greeted by a big circle of parents and newborns — I get there later than I wanted, because of my own delays at home and our stop on the way, but it doesn’t seem to matter. There’s crying and feeding and diaper changes happening all around. Parents introduce themselves and their newborns and I introduce myself and my newborn. I recognize some of the names from the chat.

We’re sitting in the grass and I didn’t bring anything to sit on, but one of the dads says I can share a blanket with him, his wife, and their four week old daughter. “I love her name,” I say.

I couldn’t tell you much about the initial conversation. I meet lots of parents — some couples, some who are there solo, like me. Some of them have partners who are already (or still) working, one is a single parent, “by choice,” she offers. We sat in a circle and tended to our tiny humans and also tended to ourselves in that moment.

I watch a second-time mom effortless nurse in the big circle, without a cover. I’m inspired to do the same. I feel awkward and am fumbling but we make it work. Over time, this gets easier. A few weeks later, we’re in the supermarket and Nolan wakes up hungry and so I feed him while standing in the pasta aisle.

I watch another second-time parent pull off some magic during a diaper change. I watch a dad struggle offering his daughter a pacifier; “she was taking this one yesterday,” he says and looks up at me. “Now she doesn’t want it and I didn’t bring another”. I can relate to that — I have three different brands of pacifiers on me at that moment. We’re all still figuring out what works.

A lot of the conversation is like this. “We tried five bottles and this one works for us,” says a dad. Oh that’s so funny, I say. We hated those, but like the Mam bottles right now. “We hated those,” says a mom. “I have three at home — I’ll bring them for you next week”.

And she did.

Slowly, people start to pack up and leave. I look at my watch — two hours have flown by, and I guess we should get going too. I feed Nolan one last time, pack us up, and head out. I don’t know if this is the funny thing about memory or if this is actually what happened, but I can see myself walking home with a smile on my face. I felt connection—true connection—at a time when I was feeling so lost.

I wasn’t expecting best friends out of any of these people. I didn’t want or need best friends though. I just wanted and needed to be seen by people who understood what I was going through in that moment, and who I could understand too.

As I walk home, I forget I’m still in a diaper and bleeding. I walk with a bit too much vigor and feel a slight pain somewhere in my pelvic region. I slow down. I’m still smiling.

The next week comes and I convince my husband to join at the park meetup. There are even more people there. He talks to a Dad who is a sculptor that I haven’t seen since that day. He talks to a few other parents and consoles Nolan as he cries. He stands the whole time.

I bring a blanket this time and offer another mom who doesn’t have one a seat. I admire someone’s baby carrier and decide then and there that I’m going to try ours out tomorrow so I can maybe get the dishes done while Nolan takes a contact nap. (I succeed and we do a lot of baby wearing as the weeks and months roll on by). One of the dads says this is his last week at the park, he’s due back at work next Monday. I can’t believe that. His daughter is just a few weeks older than Nolan.

On our walk home, my husband debriefs and shares his opinions on the meetup. It’s not his thing, which we knew going into this, and I appreciate him coming anyway. “Some of those parents looked lost,” he said. I am just as lost as they are, I think.

I miss the next week — I’ve got a nasty case of mastitis and I stayed home. Ironically, I think I get this from forgetting to nurse on one side during the last meetup. I get better at feeding and pumping regularly after this point and make sure I’m switching sides. I fall back in love with my Haaka. My supply on that side — my right side — never fully recovers. For the next year, it’ll continue to produce less than my left side.

The following week, my mother in law is in town and I keep us at home again. In hindsight, I regret that. I should’ve given my self that time. I needed it.

various park hang feeds (1, 3, 5) and walks (2, 4, 6)

After a two-week gap, I am ready to get back to it. It’s Monday night and no one is talking about the Tuesday park meetup yet, so I text the group “picnic house tomorrow? Nolan and I will be there around 11”. Parents chime in with confirmation they’ll be there or reasons why they’ll need to skip. Some are coming for the first time.

This time, we sit at the tables by Winner. We all spend so much time crouched over, it’s nice to have an area with chairs to sit on. I fall in love with their chicken salad sandwich and get it most weeks from here on out.

This continues as summer ends and we move into fall. I can’t make every meetup, but I go as often as I can. I learn that I don’t need ten diapers for a few hours and I ditch my nursing cover for good. I find myself often calling out on Monday night, to make sure we’re still on, but sometimes other parents do this first.

The group morphs over time. Slowly, parents start to return to work and begin to drop off. This happens with the dads first, most notably. The group was pretty even at first, by our last few weeks its all moms. On one dad’s second day back at work, he comes anyway and takes a call from the park. I found that to be relatable.

Over time, the babies change and grow, and so do we. The babies are sleeping better, recognizing each other, and bringing an ounce of personality to these meetups. We look less tired, and are starting to do the things we used to love. One mom talks about going to a HIIT class later that day. I admire her—I am still just walking and doing pelvic floor exercises at this point.

I can feel us all returning to ourselves, even if I don’t really know who any of these people are outside of parenting. We swap swaddles, pacifiers, books, and other items between each other — this didn’t work for me, but I hope it works for you, I say, handing over the Magic Merlin Sleep Sack I got from my local Buy Nothing group that I put a lot of faith in. We swapped tips and moments of solidarity, too.

We continue to learn about each other and keep up with what we’re all going through. One mom has been anxious about her daughter’s weight for quite some time. "She is looking really good,” I say. “Yes! she’s back on her curve,” she says as her daughter takes a bottle.

In late October, I talk about wanting to wean Nolan from one of his night time feeds. He skips it every so often so I think he’s ready. A second-time mom walks me through what she did with her first and I give it a go. Two weeks later, that feed is dropped. She asks me about it next time I see her, and I’m proud to share that her advice worked. I share this with another mom who is in earshot, who is also hoping to drop a night feed.

Outside of the park meetup, I find life gets a little more normal too—slowly but surely. I find consistency and routine in other ways. I’m going to other meetups here and there, seeing my non-parent friends slightly more often, and overall feeling like I’m out of the initial haze. But the picnic house becomes a constant for me, something to look forward to, and (especially early on), the only true way to mark the passing of time. It’s Tuesday again, I think. Another week gone by. As we drop naps and adjust to new schedules the meet-up might start at different times, and a few times we postponed to Wednesday because of some rain, but mostly there’s a lot of consistency there.

Me and some moms (yellow hearts) and babies (red hearts)

By November, the group gets pretty small. Lots of folks have gone back to work. My own return from maternity leave approaches. I am sick to my stomach thinking about it, I say to the group. I tear up. “It sucks,” says the second time mom who gives me weaning advice a few weeks before. “Like, it’s really awful. But it also gets better, and was easier than I thought,” she assures me while placing her hand on my shoulder. On my second day back at work I say something similar to my boss when he asks how I’m doing.

I go back to work and the group, fairly small at this point, continues to meet. But the weather gets too cold to keep it up shortly after, the holidays hit, and the Tuesday park meetup seems to slowly and unofficially disband. There are some other touch points.

The Signal chat is still kicking to this day. The 4am chats are long behind us, but it’s still a place for advice and conversation. The advice has followed the various milestones (currently, we’re talking a lot about toddler tantrums, baby proofing, and holiday illnesses).

We’ve had a few meetups since we all went back to work to stay connected, but we are mostly all living our own lives now, just with kids in tow. It’s fun to see how everyone is doing and how much the babies have grown. When the babies all turned one there was an onslaught of birthday invitations (including an invitation to Nolan’s first) and we’ll be going to a holiday party one of the couples is hosting at their home this weekend.

I still enjoy the connection, but it’s more about catching up with each other now, acknowledging that we’re all humans outside of being parents but that parenthood is what brought us together. It feels like a way to connect to a part of myself that in the moment felt so permanent but now feels so distant.

This group—and specifically these Tuesday morning meetups—were a light for me during what, I’m realizing with hindsight, was (or maybe what could’ve been) a pretty dark time. I can’t speak to how I would’ve navigated the first months of parenthood without it, but I don’t think I’d have done as well. I think leaving the house would’ve been hard for a lot longer, and I think I would’ve felt alone for a lot longer too.

This group didn’t become my new best friends, but that was never the point. They were exactly who I needed in that moment, and navigating parenthood alongside them will always be important to me. I realize that even in the toughest seasons, meaningful connection—whether in a Signal chat at 4am or on a picnic blanket in Prospect Park over a chicken salad sandwich—can make all the difference.