Nothing sounds cringier to me than a nightclub for moms.
But something told me the “Mom Dance Party” Saturday night in the Mission was going to be worth getting dolled up for anyway. And by the time I was on my second shot of Fernet and had followed a dance train through the crowd to a huddle of women sharing psychedelic mushroom chocolates, I knew this was no ordinary hang.
This was a convening of 300 women who know all the secrets, who wipe all the butts, and who look sexy as hell doing it.
Reader: I’ve rarely seen a room filled with hotter women than I did at Brick & Mortar Music Hall. Sadly for the hetero men of the world, they weren’t there to see it. In fact, the only men permitted at the club were the bouncers and bartenders, there “just to protect and serve us,” noted Samala, a mom herself and one of the two DJs along with Mama K.
The night was organized by Elizabeth Wellington and Sarah Battani Sams, best friends from Denver who, after having their own post-partum identity crises, created Moms Feelin’ Themselves to throw dance parties all over the country. The San Francisco party kicked off their first California tour, following nights in their hometown, Boston, and Salt Lake City.
The evening started with compliments. One mom yelled, “I love your outfit!” to a woman in a golden onesie, who shouted back, “I love that no one is hitting on us!” It ended with a group of moms taking their shirts off and boogying in their bras. (Once you’ve had your nipples bitten by a baby and doctors staring at your vagina as a head pops out, dancing in a sports bra is nothing.)
The night was a reminder that moms, no matter their age, relationship status, or level of exhaustion, know how to party. In fact, some of us probably met our baby’s dad at a club once and took him home. We just don’t get to go out very often — too busy are we dealing with the mental load that keeps our Botox doctors in business thanks to the depth of our brow furrows.
But no brows were furrowed Saturday. Instead, we were screaming the lyrics to Charli XCX’s “I Don’t Care,” jumping so high to Beyonce’s “Texas Hold ’Em” that our boobs were popping out of our bras.
No one talked about work or mentioned their kids. This night wasn’t about them. They were home asleep — or still awake, but who cares, not our problem. We were dancing. We were bumming menthol cigarettes (at least I was). This being San Francisco, a few were even doing lines in the bathroom, emerging with their hands over their heads yelling, “Play the remix!” as ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” filled the room. Others were taking Bulleit shots. Many were drinking mocktails. Everyone was staying hydrated.
A group of around 40 moms who exercise together on Sundays in Balboa Park arrived with matching face glitter and disco-ball necklaces. They had pregamed with shots and beer pong and done their makeup together. They all planned to show up for their Sunday exercise the next day.
There were sporty moms and sparkly moms, older moms and yuppie moms. Moms in sweatbands and moms in tutus. No one wore heels. Comfortable, cute footwear dominated. The only rule of the party was that you had to be a mom. It was on the honor code — they didn’t check our kids’ birth certificates or anything.
Everyone was dressed for the female gaze. Jumpsuits from Nooworks. Frocks from Reformation. I wore my favorite purple mesh maxi dress from Dressed in LaLaLand and turned several inquiring moms on to the Salt Lake City-based brand.
When my colleague Sophie Bearman arrived wearing a necklace made of breast-pump parts, everyone went wild. (One woman joked when “Milkshake” came on that it was Bearman’s song.)
“We encourage people to wear something that you’ve been wanting to wear but that you have not had any place to wear it to,” said Wellington, a psychologist. Whether that was a gown or sweats, this was the place.
The point of the dance party is to have one night to feel like you used to. Plenty of events are dedicated to that noble idea — moms groups discuss the post-kids loss of identity all the time. But often, these gatherings serve to remind us how hard it is to be responsible for other humans. This was something different. “The point is to be in community, to be surrounded by just other moms, but to not have to talk about it,” Wellington said. When she came up with the idea it was because she realized, “I just want to go dance with women and remember who I am.”
This point was driven home when, five minutes after I arrived, a gorgeous blond woman in sequined pants tapped my shoulder. “Emily Dreyfuss!? From Idaho!?” It was Brie, a cool girl from my small-town high school who was two years ahead of me. I’d been intimidated by her back then, but here we were now, 20-some years later, having lost our braces and gained confidence. Throughout the night, I found myself dancing beside her — like we’d been transported to the school gym for a prom. Only this time, instead of Bacardi 151 in a smuggled water bottle, we could go to the bar and pay for Don Julios.
At the bar, I met Caroline McCormack, who lives in Bernal and has two kids under 5. She was carrying two drinks and said she’d never been to an event like this before. (None of us had.) “The early start time appealed to me,” she said. “Yes!” squealed everyone nearby. The party started at 7 p.m. and ended at 10:30.
Talia Salvi came in from Roseville (at least that’s what I think she said — the music was quite loud!) and met her friends from the Peninsula. Since it was too loud for me to hear what she was saying, Salvi grabbed my notebook and wrote, “We’re the cool moms!” When I stepped outside with them, I quickly learned their life stories. Her friend Aimee has four kids, and her husband just got a vasectomy. Salvi’s husband, Joe, fell in love with her after hearing her deliver a eulogy. I didn’t catch the rest of the story because Missy Elliott’s “Work It” came on, and the dancefloor called.
“I don’t really go out anymore since having kids because I worry about other women judging me,” said one mom of three who had come in from the far East Bay. “But this feels like, no pressure, no competition. It’s like we’re all already friends.”
And it did. I wanted to be friends with all these women. In fact, I wound up taking photos with a bunch of strangers at the photo booth — sponsored by home insurance company Kin Home, which had sent two women, both moms, to the party to deliver the message that “Kin’s got you covered. You can go out and have fun while we take care of the home,” said spokesperson Kelsey Glynn. Her colleague Tram Nguyen came up from the Peninsula to celebrate that she’d just weaned her firstborn. “I’m free!” she cheered.
“All the women who come to this party fucking get it,” yelled Sams. Next, she and Wellington are taking the party to L.A. But they’ve pledged to return to San Francisco often, since the event sold out so quickly. “We need this!” yelled one mom from Noe Valley. “We were floored by the incredible reception by SF moms,” Wellington said.
As the Mill Valley moms piled into their black Escalade to go home, others were searching for the after-party. I walked to the Muni in a daze, singing long-forgotten Christina Aguilera lyrics under my breath. I felt like myself again.