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we were having sex, we said. We laughed harder at that, and then we cried. We reminded each other, over and over, that it was all such a short, sweet time; that our children would one day wean from our breasts, sleep through the night, and be independent. We were raising a healthy, emotionally intelligent, free-thinking generation to be a light to the world. We were all on the same mission, mothers-in-arms. I’m not going to pretend it was a utopian matriarchy. It wasn’t. We could be unkind, sanctimonious, and petulant. But it was a sisterhood. And to me, it was oxygen.
    Identifying myself as part of a movement not only provided me with an instant community, it made it seem like I had a plan. I adopted it like a new religion, with all the proselytizing and intolerance of the recently saved. I didn’t just disagree with formula-feedings, disposable diapers, day care, and baby-schedulers, I had contempt for them. I pretended compassion for parents who were at their wits’ end, but I really thought those who spanked and made babies cry themselves to sleep were child abusers. Yes, I was that asshole. I didn’t make allowances for circumstances other than mine. I secretly judged working mothers for choosing a paycheck over the emotional well-being of their child. I conveniently forgot that I needed help learning to breast-feed at first, and had been lucky to have a midwife who could guide me. Those who chose not to nurse had to be uncaring or ignorant, and those who quit hadn’t tried hard enough, obviously. It was difficult to fathom how other people could have their priorities so backward. I was both baffled and irritated when I was told by a neighbor, “You have to get away from your baby sometimes.”
    Why, I wondered, cradling my tiny son in his sling. He’d grow up and go away from me soon enough, perhaps as far away from me as I was from my own mother. Why in the world would I want to get away from him now, when he most wanted to be with me?
    There would be plenty of time to take care of myself and my marriage later, I thought. If I noticed that some of the most fiercely attached mothers had spouses who seemed oddly detached , I didn’t connect it with the intense focus on child rearing, or to my own marital health. Everything was secondary to my way and truth.
    It must be said, before anyone glares hard and long on my account at the next mother they see nursing a toddler (who is probably getting enough evil looks as it is, and could use a smile instead), that my views weren’t representative of the Order of the Sling. Some of us rode in on higher horses than others, and even the most evangelical among us was sure to have a counterpart on the other side of the playground, thinking we should all be arrested for indecent exposure of our breasts, and for endangering our children by sleeping with them. Moms are so hard on each other because we’re so damn hard on ourselves. None of us can really be sure we’re doing the right thing, or know how it’s all going to turn out. Today, I believe most parents—even the spankers—love their kids as much as I do, and are doing the best they can, like I do. But you couldn’t tell me that back then.
    With each child, I became more relaxed, or maybe I was just more exhausted. At any rate, I was less rigid in my views. I found it was possible to compromise, and still be a good mother; perhaps, a healthier person. My firstborn wouldn’t take a bottle or pacifier, for instance, because I hadn’t dared introduce one before the recommended time, lest dreaded nipple confusion impair his breast-feeding technique. It worked. He was very clear on the difference, and spat out every kind of artificial nipple I tried. I couldn’t be away from him for more than an hour or two at a stretch. It was awful. I was discovering that I did need to get away from my baby sometimes, if just to go to the dentist.
    â€œDo what you have