In this age in which we are encouraged to connect in real time, at least superficially through curated images and updates, it seems helpful for mothers to find community through social media. We post our problems in selective groups, seek the hivemind when we’ve encountered one of those people, say, that have mistaken us for our child’s nanny, or asked an inappropriate question about our child’s ethnic background or skin color. I admit it: it feels good for the immediate feedback, the idea of support, the justified outrage and appropriately worded posts of solidarity from our network. Immediate feedback to: Why won’t he sleep in his bed? Does your daughter do this? Can you believe what someone did to my child? It feels good to post a picture of one of my daughters, or son, a family picture, and to feel like we are seen. But there is no cure for mother loneliness, the singular kind of loneliness that comes with the all-enveloping preoccupation with raising small humans, from the day you bring the infant …

As a child, it was a common sight to see my mother hunched over a long bolt of white silk, taffeta, or tulle that bundled in her lap and onto the floor, while in the glow of the television which played General Hospital or a telenovela, she hand-sewed beads, trim or some sort of notion onto an elaborate dress. This effort was done with intensity, despite her complete engrossment in the story she watched, and while she shouted to the characters with warnings, imitated peculiar voices with uncanny accuracy, or let out a curse or death-wish to a villain who kept killing off her favorite characters. I was named after one of those characters on General Hospital who died an untimely death, Dr. Lesley Webber, a character who finds a long-lost adopted daughter and died in a car wreck in 1984 (only later to reemerge from a long catatonic state in 1996). My mother had never received any formal training in pattern making, couture technique, or how to sew and alter ball gowns, wedding dresses or customized clothing. What …