Mommy Milk

Sun fluttered on the exposed brick of our Toronto semi. My husband’s shadow elongated from the open-concept dining room into the kitchen, his figure expansive, his life in fatherhood the same. 

He rested his hand on my shoulder, the baby strapped to my chest with a long piece of stretchy fabric. It’s supposed to allow me to get things done around the house, but I had no real desire to “get things done around the house.” I just wanted to lay on the couch and watch TV. 

“Here,” I handed her to him. She fluttered slightly, small hands not yet able to open and close, lips encroaching on her entire face. She was small when she was born eight weeks ago. Barely five pounds. I wished that they took her to the NICU, just so I could get some sleep after the marathon of birth. The hospitals here believe that babies should be with their mothers constantly, which seems humane, but they stuff four mothers, four babies, and four partners into one room and leave you sitting with a catheter full of urine for five hours while the woman next to you has her entire family visiting, so I have to believe that this policy is to make the hospital more money. 

***

Before motherhood, I’d only pulled a proper all-nighter once. I’d also slept for thirty-six hours. I was seventeen.

All that to say, postpartum was a strange experience. 

“I don’t want to brush over what you’re saying,” the woman from public health said on the phone. “It sounds like you have symptoms of postpartum depression. Do you know what that is?”

Can you imagine if I didn’t know what postpartum depression was? 

At my six-week doctor’s appointment, I must have seemed fine because I saw the nurse write doing well on my chart. Then she had me complete the postpartum questionnaires and quickly deleted doing well and wrote referred to resources for postpartum depression. 

Those resources were an unhelpful call from public health and a link to a WhatsApp community for new moms—Mama Bears in the 6ix. 

~*** Welcome Mamas!! ***~

This community is for YOU! We’re all moms here…we get it! There is nothing too big or too small to ask this group. Whether you’re just starting out and need breastfeeding support or are trying to wrangle a two-year-old, this group is here to help. 

Browse the different channels and find like-minded mamas:

• Milky Mamas (breastfeeding support)
• Not-so-picture books (mama book club lol—steamy novels galore!)
• Mama strong (f*** the bounce back, but let’s get grooving together)
• Babes gotta eat! (starting solids and beyond)
• Mamas in the wild (IRL community events)
• General Q&A (any and all questions)

We’re always looking for new facilitators for our community — it takes a village. If you’re a mama looking to give back, send me a DM! 

All the love in the world mama bears,

Selene

“Why not be a facilitator?” my husband asked when I showed him the welcome message from the group. 

“I showed you this so that we could bully it together, not so that you could encourage me to do something that I don’t want to do.” 

Our small backyard was covered in the idea of winter—no snow, but air that burned like dry ice. Standing on the porch, I took four deep breaths and pictured Spring: Pastel flowers blooming, big cartoon raindrops falling from the sky, acoustic guitar chords ringing out. That was who I wanted to be as a mother. Not a cooler filled with forbidden ice that beckoned children to touch it only to burn them. 

“Fine,” I said as I returned inside and closed the door to the frozen hell behind me. “I’ll do it.” 

My husband smiled, our daughter napped on his stomach as he sat in the slinging Ikea chair.

“I love you,” he said. 

I huffed upstairs. 

***

Yes mama!!! We have a great role for you! We gotta make sure that this community is kept safe n sacred. We need mama protectors to vet the new members looking to join our space. 

My face scrunched like I smelled something putrid. I must have taken a moment too long, because Selene jumped in again. 

Don’t worry—we’re not running background checks LOL! Just making sure that the mamas have a photo of themselves and their babes (it’s okay if they don’t show the babe’s face. We’ve all seen those TikToks!) and that their bio says what neighborhood in the city they live in. We like to keep it to Toronto proper so that we’re really building community 🙂 

And again:

How does that sound, Mama? 

***

Three days later, the baby and I were bundled up on the subway headed to a downtown brewery. The only good thing about postpartum depression was that it seemed to nullify the underlying anxiety I’d had for my whole life. Bringing a two-month-old on public transit during cold and flu season did not register as something that I shouldn’t do even though I spent my entire pregnancy doomscrolling about infant death from RSV. 

A homeless man was spread across four seats. We sat kitty-corner from him. The putrid scent woke me up a bit, reminding me of the lochia that had just stopped aggressively filling every room I entered with the scent of dead placenta. 

Recently, they arranged cell service on the subway. The baby was sleeping soundly, and I was scrolling, something I quickly learned was a big part of late-stage-capitalism-motherhood. On WhatsApp, a new request to join the group popped up. The woman didn’t have a photo of herself or her baby as her profile picture, but she said that she heard of the brewery meetup and wanted to attend. 

I quickly hit “accept” and went back to scrolling through the chat to numb myself:

• Ladies, how did you take your pack n play, XL stroller, and highchair to Europe?! On airline website, but confused!
• Baby outgrew infant seat…I’m still jamming him in there so that i can take ubers, what did you mamas do? 
• Has any1 read any steamy books lately? Hubby is NOT doing it for me anymore! 

***

The brewery was at the back of a new shopping centre made of shipping containers. It was one of the coolest developments in the city, which I think exemplifies how uncool the city is. 

“We got this,” I whispered into my stroller. My perfect, cherub-faced girl was staring up at me, her face still unable to express much of anything. I wanted to caress her cheek. To tuck my lips in the space between her earlobe and shoulder. I wanted to want these things. Desperately. 

A foam core sign welcomed us at the brewery entrance. “Mommy Mingle” was written in blue bubble letters, while cartoon beer glasses, martini glasses, and wine glasses floated in the background. 

I looked down at my angel-faced doll who had just fallen asleep, took a deep breath, and walked to the series of cocktail tables that were buzzing with fifteen women and their babies. 

A blonde woman stole away from the group and approached me. “Welcome, mama! Sign in over here.” She led me to a small bench in the corner that had some nametags and an iPad to put names and emails.

She pulled out her huge iPhone and clicked and clanked while I was signing in. 

“Are you Selene?” I asked. 

She perked up, eyes wide. “Oh no, I’m Claire,” she said. She pointed to her name tag. Her smile was pursed, as if whatever was on her phone was far more important than this conversation. 

I nodded and finished scribbling my name on a sticker. We both just stood there. She hadn’t looked up from her phone yet. Her pink manicured nails contrasted against her cream scarf. I looked down at my oversized brown suede coat I’d had since it was in style, crusty Blundstones, and chipped, dirty nails. 

She finally looked up from her phone and peered into my bassinet. “Oh my goodness,” she squealed. “We have a little one, mama!”

“Just about eight weeks.”

“Oh my god, good for you getting out of the house already! I was a mess at eight weeks.” She dove into a detailed story about her multiple children and how postpartum was with each of them. I nodded. She asked nothing of me and I asked nothing of her. 

Naturally, we started walking towards the other moms. I pulled up to a cruiser table with two Mama Bears who seemed much older than me. Not because they looked bad, but because they looked so unbothered by being a mom. Like this wasn’t ripping their entire unconscious apart. 

I entered mid-conversation. “It’s really so bad,” Mama Bear 1 said. 

They then looked at me and said what I’d learn every woman at a meetup like this does:

• How old are they?
• Boy or girl?
• Name? 
• Story about their baby when they were my baby’s age.

After we exhausted the requisite questions, a silence took over, and we all sipped our free eight ounce beer in unison. 

“What were you saying was bad when I walked up?” I asked. Postpartum removed some of my ability to perform in public. I think it was the sleep deprivation. Luckily, it seemed all other women also had this. 

They shared a glance like they were trying to determine if I was trustworthy. A giggle followed. 

She leaned into the high top to get closer to me, “Our older kids go to the same school. Grade one. So they’re still getting their milk delivery at lunch.” 

“Milk delivery?” 

They smiled, seemingly remembering what it felt like when they had just become moms. How little I knew. 

“The WHO updated its guidance on breast milk, you saw?” 

I nodded vaguely. There was something about increasing the amount of time to consume breast milk, but at this point I was just focused on producing any milk and my breasts not feeling like bowling balls that wanted to strike out whoever came into their path. 

“It’s two years now?” I asked. 

They gawked and laughed. “Two years?! If you want to do the bare minimum! It’s now recommended to continue breast feeding in some capacity until eight.” 

I looked around me trying to find eye contact with anyone else. A woman who just showed up and was signing in looked at me briefly. She had a small baby on her chest in a structured carrier. She looked away quickly. 

“This is a joke?” I asked. 

“Not at all!” They dove into the newest research that showed the benefits of breast milk on all developing minds. “If I could breastfeed until they’re 25 and they finally have a fully developed brain, I would!” Mama Bear 2 said. 

I was speechless, which they took as an opportunity to continue their story. 

“Anyway,” Mama Bear 1 said, “our sons are at school and another mom, Hannah—”

“You don’t need to say her name,” said Mama Bear 2. 

“Don’t worry, I can’t remember anything these days,” I said.

“Anyways,” Mama Bear 1 said, elongating the vowels, “another mom saw her pouring homo milk into her breast milk biowaste bag in the parking lot!” 

Their eyes were wide like a group of mice huddled in a field. I wasn’t sure what response they were looking for. 

“It can’t be mandatory to give breast milk,” I said. 

“Oh honey,” Mama Bear 1 said. 

My baby was still sleeping soundly. I rolled over to the picnic table where the woman with the baby in the carrier was sitting. 

***

“Hi,” the mom smiled. She was brunette with a short bob and a gummy grin.

 I sat down next to her, stroller wheels pressing into my ankles. Her baby looked up from the carrier.

“How old?” I asked. It was as if I was possessed and unable to ask anything other than questions about her child. 

“Four months,” she responded. 

I nodded and went through “the questions.” I barely retained any of the responses. Just sat there smiling and nodding and trying to stay awake. 

“You don’t have to ask me that stuff.”

I gawked, slightly embarrassed but also relieved. 

She shook her head—don’t worry about it. “I saw you over there with Mama Bear Squad.”

I laughed. She smiled. “They’re—” I said, finding no worthy adjectives. 

She cocked her head and whispered, “Once they told me that my son might have a low IQ because I gave him pre-pureed food from the grocery store.”

“God,” I responded. “Things certainly do seem a little judgey around here.” 

“Welcome to motherhood.” 

A woman stood up in front of the crowd. The event had filled out now. At least thirty moms mingled in the big, wooden brewery. 

“Mamas, welcome!” She proclaimed. Some women started to yelp, clap, and holler. I wished that I had a drink that was more than eight ounces.

“Thank you so much for making time in your busy schedules—we all know how it is. But this is time for YOU! You all deserve this community, this connection. We are here to uplift each other, to be the support that we need.”

The mothers roared with excitement. The woman at the table with me raised her eyebrows and smirked. 

“This event is graciously sponsored by Callie Brews who are excited to be the number one beer for breastfeeding moms in the country. They add more brewer’s yeast than any other brand!”

A round of applause. 

“But only drink eight ounces. We can’t have those LOs enjoying their day too much.” She winked. 

I lost focus of what she was saying. Everything around me started to swirl. I looked down at my baby and felt nothing. Two months postpartum all of a sudden seemed too soon to be anywhere but my bed. I resented my husband for encouraging me to be a part of this ridiculous group. 

“You okay?” The woman asked. 

I nodded. “I think that I’ll probably head out.”

“Me too,” she said. 

“Is that Selene?” I asked her as we were standing up. I wanted to make sure Selene knew I’d attended like she’d asked.

“Oh, Selene never comes out to these things.”

I waved at Mama Bear 1 and 2 as we walked out of the brewery. They shared a glance and started to giggle with one another. Outside the big barn doors of the brewery, the shipping container community was starting to buzz with evening events. 

“This way,” the mom said. She led us through a small walkway that led to the main road where the subway entrance was, avoiding the maze of the crowd with my stroller. 

“It was nice to meet you,” I said. “I’m this way.” I pointed to the northbound train entrance, feeling an intense desire to get home. 

“I walk,” she said. “I’m Hannah, by the way, if you ever wanted to meet up.”

Hannah. My eyes widened. “Yes, sure,” I said, trying to respond quickly. I gave her my name and she sent me a quick message on WhatsApp. 

I realized that she was the woman who I just let into the community earlier that day. The one without a profile picture. 

My stomach felt uneasy on the trip home. The baby finally woke up and I scooped her out of her bassinet, holding her close, I nuzzled into the crease of her neck and shoulder—it tasted like remembering.”Those women are psychos,” I whispered into her ear. She nuzzled deeper into my neck. Momentarily, I felt whole. 

***

The most asinine channel was Milky Mamas. 

• Mamas, I am CRYING. My LO has not ate in two days and is refusing the breast. We have our two month appointment tomorrow and I’m terrified that she isn’t gaining weight. Help!

When I tried to breastfeed my baby, her face turned bright red, she screamed, and shook violently from side to side. 

• wutever u do, do not give formula !! unless u want to lose ALL ur progress on the boob …

We went through a series of “things taped to my nipples”: plastic shield with holes, baby bottle nipples, small tubes that pulled formula from a bottle and allowed the baby to think that she was breastfeeding. 

• we don’t judge formula mamas but we all no that breast IS best. u got this mama. just keep offering the boob

In the end, I hooked myself up to a pump and milked myself eight times a day, waking up every three hours at night to be a dairy cow. 

• this is what i do: strip down naked (you and babe!) stay in bed for at least 24 hours, NO hubby allowed, and i promise u the little one will latch. mamas have been doing this for thousands of years.

I didn’t dare ask what these women thought of pumping. 

“Look at this.” I held the phone up to my husband. The baby was napping in the bedside bassinet. She raised her feet high above her head and thrashed them down, gurgling, sounding like she was shocked at her own existence. 

He skimmed the phone and grimaced. “At least they’re passionate?” 

Postpartum rage and intrusive thoughts took over as I envisioned throwing the baby at his face. 

***

The weeks blurred. The days were sharp and everlasting. At night, I would wake up multiple times trying to find the baby in my bed, certain that she had suffocated and would be cold to the touch. The baby was never in my bed; she was always in her bassinet, breathing. I couldn’t remember anything.

Two days (I think) after the brewery event, I got a DM from Selene:

Hey lady!! So happy that you came out to the brewery this past weekend 🙂 ! The gals said that you were amazing—like I expected!! 

There was no way anyone from the event had called me “amazing.” 

I wanted to quiiiiickly check-in though about the duties of the facilitator. I see that you accepted someone who didn’t meet the requirements :O It happens, mama! We’re all tired, but it’s realllly important that we keep these standards. People could be at risk (I know, it sounds intense, but we share very intimate details in this group—eek!). 

For the first time in my life, my brain felt empty. I couldn’t run through scenarios or practice various responses in my mind. I was exhausted, debilitated, ravaged by everything I had to sustain. I wished that I knew how to turn on that thing on WhatsApp that doesn’t show if you’ve read the message or not.

Hi Selene—thanks for letting me know. Sorry about that. 

She responded so quickly, I felt like she must have copy and pasted her response:

Mama!! Don’t beat yourself up—it happens to all of us. Can’t wait to have you become an even deeper part of our community and for our babes to meet. I promise, it will be worth it. 

A photo came through of a baby’s toes and a Starbucks cup in the background. 

I hearted the photo and closed the phone. 

My husband opened the front door. The baby was laying in her bassinet next to me on the couch. Guilt dripped from my pores, having her lying there alone while my husband was at work. Wasn’t the government paying me to mother? 

“Honey, I’m home,” he said, Lucille Ball stuck in his throat. 

I didn’t make eye contact and kept scrolling through the group chats:

• My little guy has his first fever…thinking of just giving some prune juice, any insight?
• I’m skeptical of how many vaccines they give here. How many of you are doing these things?
• My 6mo has been on oxygen at St. Joes for seven days because of RSV, do u know where I can buy a sub? Cravings!!!

He went to the bassinet. I saw his smile stretch across his face. 

I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw his shoes out the door. I wanted to tell him how lonely I was and how little I felt like myself, but I couldn’t, because I had to pump. 

My milk machine whirred in my eyes, and I scolded, “Don’t talk to me.”

He picked up the baby. “Mommy is feeling a little sick right now. We have to go upstairs.” He said it in a mocking voice. One that was almost kind. Almost funny. 

My phone dinged, and I wondered what Selene wanted to tell me about now. It was Hannah. 

Hey, I know it’s so weird to meet people at these events and then actually become real friends (not just mom and baby talk lol). Any chance you’d be up for a coffee or something this week? 

My heart fluttered. My real friends had disappeared since the baby was born. Their only messages were “checking in” which made me feel like a delicate porcelain doll. I wanted to cut all of them with my jagged edges. 

Yes PLEASE, I responded. 

Haha. Great! Let’s do Friday? I can come up near you guys if that’s easier—my in-laws are visiting this week so I can leave the baby with them 🙂 I just need to be back downtown to pick up my older son from school at 3. 

The jealousy that I felt towards this woman walking out of her house without a baby was stronger than the level twelve suction on my Spectra. 

Sounds good 🙂 I know a spot. 

I sent her the Google link for a local coffee shop that felt hip enough to impress her but not too cool that we wouldn’t get a table. 

***

What I didn’t take into consideration was if this cafe had an automatic door. It did not. I pushed the door open with my forearm and tried to stick my boot into it before it slammed closed. There were five people strewn throughout the cafe and none of them came to help. I huffed, nearly shouting, HELLO, DON’T YOU SEE ME? 

Before I became a mom, I was annoyed at anyone who felt that their stroller unequivocally deserved the sidewalk space when I went for a jog. 

“Try pushing it with your butt,” a voice behind me said. 

I turned and there was Hannah. She wore one of those long puffy winter coats and had a red scarf. There was a pronounced gap between her front two teeth that I didn’t notice before. I smiled, but irritation crept forward. I hated not being an expert at things. Receiving advice from dozens of moms who knew more than me grated my bones.

Pushing the door with my butt, I successfully entered the cafe. “Thanks.”

She pointed to a table in the corner. I nodded and pulled my stroller up to the side. The baby was awake but happily just looking around. She’s perfect, I thought, and I’m still a miserable bitch. 

“You order first. I’ll stay with the little one.” She smiled into the bassinet. I would have left the baby alone as both of us went up to the counter. 

We settled into the seats: coats off, hats and gloves on the table, and scarves draped over the back of the chairs. 

We also settled into small talk. This time, not about babies, which felt nice, but I was out of practice. 

How long had I lived in the neighbourhood? Two years, three? 

What did I do for work? Abandoned a PhD when I got pregnant and am “All But Dissertation.”

What did Hannah do? Government Lawyer. 

I sank into myself. What a failure against this mirror. 

We sat silently and sipped our drinks. Hannah quickly leaned across the table to be closer to me. “I have to ask…What do you think of the group chat?” 

“I mean, I think it’s stupid, and the only reason that I’m there is because the public health nurse thinks I have postpartum depression.” 

“Same.”

“Wait, are all the women in it because of that?”

She shook her head. “That’s how it started, but then people’s friends wanted to join and it got a life of its own. I’ve been in and out of the group since mat leave for my oldest.”

Her oldest, in Grade One…

“Do you know those women from the event? That I was talking to at first?”

She chortled. “Oh yeah, their kids were in school with my son. Their views are interesting to say the least.” 

 “They mentioned something to me…” Postpartum brain made me say whatever came to mind. 

“Oh my god, they told you about the breast milk?” She shook her head. “Jesus, some people really have nothing better to do.”

I asked her to explain this extended breast milk consumption. She said it was a load of crock. Those crunchy granola moms who didn’t believe in the measles vaccine were taking the WHOs global recommendation to breastfeed as long as possible and applying it to their lives in penthouse condos in Toronto. 

“So, did you give whole milk and pretend it was breast milk?” 

“No!” She laughed. “Do I look like someone who would do that? I didn’t have any milk at home, so we ran to the grocery store before school, but I forgot his cuppy for the milk.” 

I smiled at the word cuppy. It was something that I’d noticed with moms. Little kid words piled into adult conversation without them noticing. 

“I ran to the office to ask if they had anything, and all that they had were the biowaste bags for breastmilk. I put his milk in there and stuffed it in his lunch box.” 

“And then it blew up.” 

“Honestly, I am sad for them. You know they don’t have jobs to go back to after mat leave, right? They’re stay-at-home moms.” 

“I don’t really have a job to go back to either.” Again, postpartum mouth. 

“Oh, I shouldn’t have said that. But you’re a PhD. That’s obviously a different situation than two women who graduated from Western and found rich husbands on Bay Street.” 

I laughed, but it didn’t feel much different. 

“They removed me from the group,” Hannah said, slurping. 

“What?” Was this my fault? “Selene did reach out to me, angry that I let you into the group even though you didn’t have a profile picture.”

“You’re a facilitator?”

My face turned crimson. I started to jump into an explanation of why I didn’t want to be, how my husband forced me, but she cut me off. 

“This is actually perfect,” she said. 

Shrieking reverberated from the bassinet. I reached under the stroller to find my pre-portioned bottle of breast milk I’d pumped this morning. There was nothing there. I panicked. “Fuck, I have to go. I forgot milk.”

I immediately got nervous that she’d ask why I wasn’t breastfeeding. 

But she just nodded, stood up, and helped me roll the stroller out of the cafe door. 

“Listen though, this was amazing. I am going to be in touch really soon.”

My executive function was completely overwhelmed. Milk was spurting from my nipples, motivated by the baby’s screaming. I quickly started walking the five minutes back to my house. 

“Sure,” I shouted behind me. “Sounds good.” 

***

The next week was filled with scrolling through the mommy chat and not much more. I was waiting for my husband to say something about my screen time. Every night, he had forty five minutes with the baby between when he got home and when he put her to bed. After which, he was constantly on his phone. All that to say, I don’t think he noticed. 

Continuing my facilitator duties, I quietly approved requests, ensuring that their pictures were there. Being responsible for something other than a baby’s survival felt good. I waited for Hannah to message me, but figured maternity leave was filled with women chatting for an afternoon and then never speaking again.

“How’s the depression stuff feeling?” My husband asked. 

“Does it come naturally to you to ask me stupid fucking questions?” 

His mouth gaped open. He looked genuinely confused. I shook my head, feeling bad for his stupidity. My pump whirred in the background. 

“That’s a dumb question for anyone, any time, but I’ve told you a million times, don’t talk to me when I’m pumping.”

My nipples erupted under the pressure. They turned purple and bumpy. I was the same texture as Venus. 

“Sorry,” he said, burying his head into his phone. 

When the pump quieted, he looked at me. “May I speak?” He asked. 

I nodded, the pressure subsiding, the unnecessary lash-out flooding back. 

“I’m worried about you, hun. Is that group helping at all?”

I scoffed. 

“If it’s not, let’s schedule an appointment with the doctor to see if they can help.” 

I stared at him blankly. Didn’t he understand? I wasn’t depressed. My brain chemistry wasn’t wrong. I was flung out of my life, torn from anything that meant something to me, limited in everything that I was able to do, stuck trying to navigate a stroller in a city that always put washrooms in the basement. My skin was stretched and flaccid, my hair was falling out, my friends didn’t talk to me and when they did, I didn’t want to hear it. very mom that I met felt like some AI-generated woman who seemed ten years older than me. I missed me. I missed the feeling of combing through archives late at night. I missed stumbling out of the library not knowing what time it was. I missed drafting ethics applications and being a TA. I missed the smell of centuries old buildings and old books. I missed getting wine on Geary with my graduate school cohort. I missed walking past the Dance Cave late at night, remembering how good it felt to be so drunk at nineteen. Didn’t he understand that that would make anyone seem depressed? 

I nodded, placating him, waiting for his eyes to dig back into his phone so that I could squirm upstairs and masturbate alone. 

***

My baby’s hair was longer than any of the other babies. I probably should have bathed her more; it was starting to get greasy. “We’ll give you a bath tonight, sweetie pants,” I said. I knew that I would not give her a bath. 

Our room was at the back of our house. An exposed brick wall connected it to the mirror-image house next door. It was that time in winter when it was just gray. There was nothing shimmering or shining. There were no shadows because the light hung steady at a dim brightness from 8am to 4pm, bookended by complete darkness.

My husband would be home from work soon. The baby was propped on her Boppy on the bed, doing tummy time. A foldable book out in front of her. She looked at the black and white cards intently. I was a good mom, see? 

Pulling out my phone, I thought about how Hannah hadn’t messaged me yet. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach, a sadness, a confirmation that I couldn’t make friends. That I wasn’t likeable. The conversation with my husband last night replayed in my mind. Man, I missed the archives. I missed digging. 

So I pulled out my shovel and started: 

Hannah was married to a man named Josh. They bought a house in Trinity Bellwoods for 1.9 million. No parking. I winced. It was probably worth 1.2 now. Hannah’s Instagram was private, but her LinkedIn confirmed she was a lawyer for the government. Josh’s, who I found from their wedding website, Instagram was public. They were people who put emojis over their kids faces—yikes. 

I Googled the exact name of the mom chat, “Mama Bears in the 6ix”. The term seemed generic enough to garner a lot of responses that meant nothing to me: an older female artist who deemed herself the “6ix mom,” various Instagram pages run by women trying to make social media their profession while on maternity leave, and a lot of weird Drake/mom content. 

For the public health nurse to have known about this group, it must’ve received some sort of government funding. I searched the city’s website to see if anything came up. Nothing. I searched federal grants to see if anything came up. Nothing. Could it be a researcher? Could this be an offshoot of a public health program at a university? I opened up the Social Science and Humanities Research Council site (bookmarked from my real life). It felt like being home again. 

It had to have been around for six years (at least), so I started with grants that were approved seven years ago. They would likely need a year to get off the ground. I looked up “postpartum depression; mom chat; virtual.” 

There it was:

Applicant David Reynolds University of Toronto
Title Virtual Mom Chat to Address Postpartum Depression – “Selene”
Years 4
Funding $250,000

The baby had fallen asleep. I pushed the computer away and took five deep breaths. I looked down at my daughter’s beautiful locks, and listened to her shallow infant breath. I felt warm. But empty. 

I gently placed her into the bassinet, cautiously removing my hands from her body, aware that the draft in our house would attack the spots my hands had kept warm. 

She stirred and settled. I texted Hannah to ask if she wanted to meet, desperate to share my findings with someone, sleep deprivation halting any anxiety that I should have had about texting her first. She quickly answered that she wasn’t free until after the holidays. I didn’t know if I could wait that long to keep scratching. 

***

The week before Christmas break, David Reynolds’ office was empty. I knew better, knew that he wouldn’t be here, but using my brain for more than adding up ounces of milk felt too good. The baby was strapped to my chest in a carrier—the only way that I could get her out of the house without her screaming. She was fast asleep. I kept placing my forefinger under her nose, my palm on her back, and my ear to her face. Alive. 

A young girl, who was probably of legal drinking age, smiled as she approached me in the hallway. I smiled back. She walked past me to Dr. Reynolds’ door and placed something in the envelope that was taped to it. I figured professors stopped accepting paper submissions these days. But it tugged me back to undergrad, to struggling to find a printer, and to not knowing that class was cancelled until you’d trekked across campus and there was a note taped. 

“Sorry,” I said, jaunting down the hall. “Are you a student of Dr. Reynolds?”

She looked at me. Her face was so taut. 

“I’m an RA with him.” 

“You’re a grad student?” 

She smiled and nodded. She looked like she was seventeen.

All I could think of was my dull skin and wrinkles. How boring, I reminded myself. 

“I’m actually trying to get in touch with him about a research project from a few years ago.” 

“Oh my god, your baby is so cute!” She squealed. The baby had cocked her head slightly and just barely opened an eye. 

“Thanks,” I said, frustrated that I was reduced to this beautiful mound strapped to my chest, but realized that she couldn’t stop staring, her eyes wide. “The research study that you’re working with him on, what’s it about?” 

“It’s actually about moms,” she said. She cupped her hand over her mouth. “I wasn’t supposed to say that.” 

I smiled. “That’s okay. Would you like her to hold your finger?”

The girl—woman—nodded so enthusiastically it looked like her eyes were going to bobble out of her head. 

I grabbed my baby’s hand and placed the woman’s finger on the inside of her palm. She grasped. The woman’s jaw dropped. 

The baby smiled right on cue. The woman melted. “Touch her head,” I said. She obliged. 

She was in a trance. I told her I was a PhD candidate interested in working with Dr. Reynolds when I returned from my maternity leave. In five minutes, talking in an empty hallway, I found out that Selene was a persona created by the research project. ‘Selene’ is managed by a team of teen-looking RAs. 

She snapped out of her trance. “I’m sorry,” she buttoned her coat and threw her scarf so lazily around her neck that it immediately dragged on the floor. “I really have to go. I’ll let Dr. Reynolds know you’re interested in working with him when you’re done with mat leave.” 

“How did this pass ethics?” I blurted out. 

I hadn’t even told her my name. 

When I got home, I wanted to write everything down right away, but I couldn’t do anything right away anymore. I had to get home on public transport, calm the baby, feed the baby, and put the baby to nap, which she decided to only do on my chest. My phone was out of reach, I had to pee, and I couldn’t move or sleep because it’s dangerous to fall asleep with your baby on you. So, I sat on the couch and prayed I wouldn’t forget anything that the RA had told me. 

***

I scanned the group chat obsessively, trying to understand how Selene could be fake. 

A notification popped up on the top of my screen. Hannah.

Sorry for the radio silence! Holidays were insane. Let’s catch up? Tomorrow? Coffee?

My insides felt like a tightening ball of string. 

I’d pleaded with my husband to stay with the baby. Regularly, I found myself embarrassed by my actions: pleading, blaming, and whining. Desperation for some control over my spiraling internal being and this new (and sometimes horrible) external world where I was in charge of everything related to this miniature, beating beauty. 

I told Hannah that I would meet her downtown. I thought I needed some time out of the house, but by the time I had walked the eight minutes to the bus stop, I was desperate to stay at home. Already exhausted. Already irritated.

Trinity Bellwoods Park was a zoo during the summer and a slushy flood during the winter. I knew this but still chose to walk through it, covered to my knees in frozen mud. When I got to the cafe, Hannah was sitting in the window, casually drinking from a large, shallow, porcelain mug. She waved energetically as she saw me. I gave her a hug, put my coat on the chair, and let her know I was going to order. I thought of nothing while waiting for my drink. What a privilege. 

I sat down, my shallow, porcelain mug spilling slightly as I set it on the table. Hannah wiped it up. 

“You look exhausted,” Hannah said. 

I laughed. “Thank you for not saying that I was ‘glowing mama.’” 

“I could never use that word with a straight face.” 

I nodded. “I feel like that’s why we get along.”

“It’s the little things.” She then pulled out her phone, engulfed in a light pink case, and opened the camera app. Pursing her lips, she checked herself out, and I decided that maybe I didn’t like Hannah that much. She wore a large diamond engagement ring that caught the overhead lights like a mini suncatcher. 

Only twenty minutes remained before I needed to start my forty-minute commute home to pump. I no longer had the luxury of floating in the nebulous comfort of small talk; there was always food to extract from myself, sweet, yeast-smelling breastmilk diapers to change, and a crying baby to soothe. 

“Why did you say that you knew Selene?” Motherhood had brought a sense of directness that I wanted to lather all over everyone. 

She coughed and spit out a bit of her matcha. “What?”

I told her the story about how I went to the university and talked to the RA. I even told her that I looked her up and found her house on HouseSigma. I said this to show her how good I was at researching, but I realized it might have come across as antisocial behaviour. 

“You didn’t actually talk to Dr. Reynolds though? I don’t blame the RA for not knowing. She was probably still in high school six years ago.” 

“Huh?” I said, no desire to pretend I knew what Hannah was saying. I hadn’t slept more than three hours at a time in months. I needed it clear. 

“‘Selene’ did exist, in that they had a co-investigator at the time who was a young mother come to the events and literally pretend to be a woman named Selene. I am embarrassed to say this now, but she became who I thought was my best friend. Except that can only last so long when she’s actually lying about her name and her job. Although, to be fair, that is basically all that she was lying about. She felt so bad about it, felt like what they were doing went against ethics, so she was going to turn Dr. Reynolds in. But he was her PhD supervisor, and he threatened to not let her graduate if she did. So, she kept her mouth shut, got her PhD, and is now a professor in Manitoba.”

“Bleak.” 

Hannah nodded. 

“Academia truly sends you to the least glamorous places and makes you feel like you should be grateful to be there.” I thought about all the places I imagined I could go if I ever decided to finish my PhD: Thunder Bay, Edmonton, or Halifax if I was lucky. 

“I hear it’s nice in June,” Hannah said. “Anyways, I was pissed. Obviously. So I spent too many hours obsessed with bringing this all to light. But then my husband convinced me not to. He said that my mat leave was almost over anyways, and now that ‘Selene’ left, the group was going to fall apart. I had our child to focus on and a job. I shouldn’t get so wrapped up in these things.” 

“That must have been so infuriating.” 

“You’d think so, I’d think so! But actually, it was strangely easy to let it go. I didn’t even realize that the group was still running until Mama Bear 1 and 2 started to circulate that weird-ass rumour about me and the breast milk. Mama Bear 2 approached me at pick-up and said that I ‘should really join this great mamas group to get support with breastfeeding.’ I nearly gagged when I saw what she was talking about.” 

I winked my eyes one after the other. A strange tick I’d developed when I needed to focus. 

“You can make broadcast posts, right?” she asked.

I shrugged my lips. “I honestly have no idea.” 

She took my phone off the table. “May I?” I nodded and unlocked it for her. That typical sense of possessiveness or anxiety was notably absent. 

“Yeah, see, right here.” She pointed to some corners of the WhatsApp group page. “You can do it. And you can let new members in, right?”

I nodded.

“Ok, this might work.” 

***

Hannah’s house was nice enough that I could understand why they paid half a million over market value even though there wasn’t even a parking spot. It had a floating staircase. There was no dust on the baseboards. No stains in the sink. No unsightly marks on the toilet. Everything was a light blue or soft wood, Scandinavian. 

“Are you sure you’re okay with not being in the group anymore though?” Hannah asked me as we sat at her big kitchen island. Both babies were napping. If I were a baby, I’d nap all day in this house. It felt like a large, fluffy, white comforter. 

I choked on a kumquat—yes, she had kumquats in her house.The bright orange bulb felt like an accent piece against the lights of the decor. So purposeful. So calculated. 

“Yeah, I promise you that is not a concern of mine.” 

She steadied herself. “Ok, let’s do this.”

Her hands were shaking slightly as she took my phone out of my hand to broadcast the video for everyone to see. I, on the other hand, felt like I was lying on the dock at a Muskoka cottage listening to the waves gently lap as the sun started to set. 

A woman’s face filled the screen. She spoke: 

“Hi everyone, this is Rashida. You would know me as ‘Selene.’ I am a professor of sociology at the University of Manitoba. However, I did my PhD at U of T. While there, I was a part of a research group looking to support women going through postpartum depression. The idea was to launch a virtual meeting place where women could seek support. We decided to create a persona, Selene, who was managed by me to facilitate the group. I had recently had children, so I was able to best understand your situation. However, it quickly became clear to me that what we were doing was unethical even if the university’s ethics board approved the deception. 

I have been away from the project for over five years now but have been made aware that current research assistants are managing the ‘Selene’ persona. There are likely a handful of them who regularly rotate and change over the years. I speculate that they are using AI to keep her tone the same, but that, I cannot prove. 

You have every right to be upset about the deception that you’ve endured. I am disturbed at where this research project has gone and what ‘Selene’ is advocating for. 

Dr. David Reynolds is the lead researcher on this project. Please reach out to him and the university ethics board to voice your concerns. 

Thank you.”

We could see the number of people online who were likely watching the video. 7…26…304.  Before they could respond, Hannah broadcast the poll from my account:

As a facilitator, I can work to close this group on your behalf. Please vote if you would like the group to be shut down or not: 

• Yes
• No 

The votes started coming in immediately. Overwhelmingly no. The comments followed: 

• Uhhhh confused!!!! Not to change the topic but does anyone know the hours of the ER? LO is not breathing ATM! 
• Wow….i knew deep state was real, but this?! 
• any1 go to DR and have trouble with the humidity?? my baby girl is NOT lovin it. How do we stay cool wo sunscreen?
• not to be rude but…who cares? 
• I do NOT want to lose this mama community 😭 that would be IT for me. 

I watched Hannah’s face drop as she continued to scroll through the messages on her phone, watching her plan blow up like a firework of formula, medication, and asking your pediatrician—everything these mamas seemed to hate. 

“I guess people don’t mind being surveilled these days?” 

“No, no, this is not how it’s meant to go!” She yelled. Our babies’ limbs extended over their bassinets. They gasped. She took deep breaths. Quietly, she said, “Do you ever think about ending it all?”

“Jesus, yeah? I mean, certainly at times. Since birth, especially.”

“How do you picture it?” She asked, leaning towards me. 

“I don’t know if I do picture it. I just wish it.” 

“I picture it.”

“What’s the picture?”

“A gun to the bottom of my chin, you know, right here,” she stroked the bottom side of her large jaw. 

“That’s graphic.”

She shrugged. “It always makes me feel better to imagine it. Like I am in control.”

It was hard for me to believe that this group meant so much to Hannah that she wanted to kill herself. My baby cried softly. I got up off of the cream-coloured bar stool and went to her. She settled as soon as I scooped her into my arms. I felt warm. Sometimes these moments would bake through me—I am her mom. She loved my skin and my smell and all the parts of me that I hated. 

I looked back and Hannah was sobbing. Like uncontrollable convulsing. 

“Oh my god.” I ran to her side, my unmatched socks slipping slightly on the polished light wood, the baby still cradled in my arms. “What’s wrong?” 

“You can’t imagine what it was like.”

“What what was like?” 

“The—” she gasped for breath between each word, “milk thing.”

“The milk thing?”

She nodded. 

“You mean stupid ass Mama Bear 1 and Mama Bear 2?”

She chuckled, nodded, and kept on sobbing. “We had to change schools for my son.”

My jaw cracked. My hand was on her shoulder. My body knew how to comfort even if I didn’t have the executive function to do so. “I had no idea it was that bad. You seemed so badass about the whole thing when we talked.” I found that my lexicon was limited now. Yesterday, I forgot how to spell “leisurely.”

“This group ruins lives.” 

Hannah was someone who thought that because something ruined her life, it ruined all lives. But I also thought of all these dim women who needed help figuring out why their baby couldn’t sleep through the night when they took him eight hours over the Atlantic, put him in an unfamiliar room, surrounded by unfamiliar scents and sounds, and a clock that was six hours ahead of what he used to. Didn’t these idiots need this? 

“The breastfeeding stuff needs to be shut down. That I agree with.”

She nodded aggressively. 

“I’ll handle it,” I said. 

She looked at me, her eyes wide, like a girl who never had to live without the constant protection of her parents’ bank accounts.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, grabbing my hand. 

We left shortly after. At home, my husband was playing PlayStation. He turned it off when we walked in the door. “How was the mom hang?” He asked. He looked so expectant, so shallow. I nearly threw up as I handed him the baby and opened my laptop, excited to feel only like my own skin.

***

Logging into my university email account for the first time felt like a betrayal. To whom? The baby? Myself? The legality of Canadian maternity leave? 

Who knew that six failed grant applications would come in handy someday. They say that though, don’t they? That everything happens for a reason? That every failure is leading you to where you needed to go? And who knew that I was destined to bring down a problematic mom’s group chat. It wasn’t what I dreamed of, but it was enough. For now. 

It was late, and I should have been sleeping for the measly two hours that I had before my next pump, but instead I was stationed at my dining room table, which was covered in soiled diapers and spilled breast milk, and I was digging. 

Many of Selene’s posts and interactions went against ethics and privacy requirements, but these were some of my favourites:

• Selene “hearted” a post that read: “honestly, mamas who don’t breastfeed should have to pay for healthcare during flu season. THEY are the reason hospitals are full. their babes deserve antibodies!!!!!”
• Selene wrote, “Without using our tatas, we are not mamas!” Followed up by, “However, we accept all mamas here—bio or not!” I imagined this whiplash occurred when a shift change happened. 
• Selene broadcasted the message: “Mamas, community is the best medicine. Come out to our events to cure your baby blues! No scary pharmaceuticals, just mama love!”
• Selene posted a message encouraging women to drink Callie Brews every meal, which made me believe this is why they were insistent we only consume eight ounces at the event. 

I heard the baby cry. I waited to hear the creak of my husband getting up. Nothing happened. “Fuck,”I said loudly. Stomping upstairs, I tapped him harshly on the arm and turned on his bedside table light. 

His eyes opened like they were plastered shut, all covered in sleep. 

“Do you not hear her?” I asked, gesturing at the baby, “I’m pumping. Can you do something for once?!”

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, trying to gain his bearings. “Did she wake up? I didn’t hear anything.”

I put the baby in his arms and stormed out. The baby cried louder. I cried. I pictured myself falling down the stairs. I pictured myself holding the baby and falling down the stairs. I pictured myself dropping the baby down the stairs. I pictured the baby’s head splattering open like a watermelon. I shut my eyes and prayed to stop picturing things. 

Back at the dining room table, I plugged myself into my pump. The whirring made me want to crawl out of my skin.

I started my email to Dr. Reynolds. I sent the information I’d gathered and an outline of the conversation I’d had with his RA, alongside the video that Rashida recorded (sorry, Rashida!). I was back, baby. 

I told him that I was going to send this to the Research Ethics Board, the SHHRC committee, and the chair of the department if he didn’t shut down the group. 

Seeing my email signature automatically populate felt like orgasming for the first time in nine months. Like licking a scabbing wound. Power. 

Constance Fournier

PhD Candidate, Department of Sociology 

***

The next morning, Selene made a final post: 

Hey Mamas, [I was shocked that they were keeping up her persona]

I know we’ve all been shaken by what’s happened over the last 24 hours. I’m sorry to say some mamas have not found this group helpful and have tried to shut it down. I’m more sorry to say that they have succeeded. It’s not only dismantling a community, but deleting over six years worth of insightful information for mamas around the city. 

This is my final goodbye, but keep on shining ladies, and always, always remember to be there for one another. This tribe is strong and important. 

A Mama Bear hug,

Selene

The reactions poured in. Broken heart emojis. Shocked face emojis. Mind-exploding emojis. 

Mama Bear 2 from the brewery posted:

• Ladies!! Quickly before this group gets shut down for real, click this link to join our NEW mama bear group: Mama Bears TO. All the same channels, all the same vibes, none of the weird research stuff (lol). Let’s keep this going!!!!!

I laughed. I texted Hannah: Do we try to shut that one down too? 😂

She never responded. I deleted the group from my chats. Margaret looked up from her bassinet. She cooed for the first time. My heart grew. I took out my jug of milk and fed her, eyes locked. Together.