Pokeno Sisterhood

Three Decades of Love, Laughter, and Support

by Mimi Greenwood Knight

IT WAS 1990 and a bunch of new moms gathered in a classroom inside a portable building in the parking lot of St. Tammany Parish Hospital. The women came from different backgrounds and different life experiences. But they had one thing in common. They’d put their careers on hold to be fulltime moms, and they were looking for support in their journey.

For me, the past three years had been a series of fertility struggles and treatments, one miscarriage, a successful pregnancy, and a harrowing delivery. I’d devoured every parenting book I could find, obsessively documented my pregnancy, said “goodbye” to my newspaper career and finally, finally— FINALLY was ready to live my dream. I’d wanted to be a mom, since I was a kid. Now, I had this glorious creature and no clue how to care for her.

Of course, being the eleventh child in my family, I’d been helping with my nieces and nephews since I was seven. That was dress rehearsal, though. This was the real deal. I was 30 with far too much time on my hands and overthinking everything. I’d lay our Haley O’Hara in her crib and then stand over her whispering affirmations in her ear while she slept. I’d jump up multiple times a night because, what if she stopped breathing? I called 911 once because she was choking—on water. And I spent way too much time gazing at myself in the mirror to see how great I looked finally holding a baby.

When my poor husband came home at night, I fairly tackled him I was so starved for adult conversation. And I vaguely remember cornering the UPS guy and subjecting him to every detail of my labor and delivery. I kept telling myself how lucky I was, how many women would love to have the option of fulltime mommyhood. How dare I not be 100 percent happy? How dare I not love every minute of this dream I’d had for decades? How dare I feel lonely, overwhelmed, insecure and inadequate for this thing women have been doing for millennia?

I needed perspective. I needed someone who understood what I was going through. I needed mom friends.

I found all of that and so much more at The Parenting Center of West St. Tammany. I remember sitting in the parking lot waiting for them to open my first day. Haley O’Hara and I were dressed in matching outfits, not a hair out of place. We’d been ready for hours, nervous and excited and eager for whatever we’d find in that little metal building.

What we found was friendship, camaraderie, support, information, affirmation and some long overdue belly laughs. The things that had me crying at home I could now laugh about. When I showed the other moms how I’d only painted the nails on one hand before the baby cried and I never got around to painting the other one, another mom rolled up her pant legs and showed how she’d only shaved one leg. I discussed intimate details with these new friends that I hadn’t even told my sisters. There always seemed to be another mom who’d just lived through the developmental stage where I was mired and was there to offer perspective. Next thing I knew, it would be me offering support to a mom enduring the stage I’d just survived.

The game was secondary. In fact, we played the simplest version we could in order to keep up with the two or three simultaneous conversations going on around the table. Many were the months when the day of Pokeno rolled around and it seemed the universe was conspiring to keep us away. The kids would be especially challenging, appliances would conk out, cars wouldn’t start, husbands would be late getting home, anything and everything would try to stop us from gathering. But we quickly learned those were the nights we needed each other most. If we could just push past all the obstacles, we’d soon be wiping away tears of laughter saying, “Man, I need this.”

To my husband’s credit, he figured out early on what this group meant, not just to me, but to him and the kids. After a night with my “Pokeno sistas” (as we began to call ourselves), I was a more patient mama and a sweeter wife. I could see the little things as little again. For the next 29 or so days, even when life seemed overwhelming, just knowing another Pokeno night was on the horizon was enough to put the spring back in my step.

Over the next three decades, some members moved away or got busy with other commitments. Our original sistas, Susan (who we dubbed Reverend Mother), Jane, Giselle, Karen, Lisa (we call “P”), and I welcomed Heather, Julie, Carmen (Chiquita), and Jeri. Leila left for several years but found her way back. Hurricane Katrina, which took so much from so many, gave us the gift of Kathy (Yathy) and Tara (Taroux). We began 2020, even before the world knew what a dreadful year it would be, saying “good-bye” to our sweet Julie. But each month as we meet, she still has a place at the table and in our hearts. Julie was our music buff, always knowing the deets on any oldies music we played. At least once a month now, somebody will ask for old time’s sake, “Who’s singing this song, Jules?” We keep a framed picture of her in our Pokeno kit and set it out to remember our sweet sista at each game.

We are Catholic, Baptist, Methodist, non-denominational and agnostic. We’re all over the place career-wise and not in lockstep politically or philosophically during a time when opposing views are driving friends and families apart. But we served together in the trenches of motherhood, and it’s bonded us for life. Each of us can think of a time we unburdened ourselves around the Pokeno table and received unconditional love, support, and acceptance and other times when it was our turn to bolster and buoy another sista. I am a better—saner—version of myself because of the time I’ve spent with these outstanding women. I still look forward to Pokeno night as an empty nester as much as I did when I had three kids under five. And I pray I’ll be counting down the days until our next meeting each month, for decades to come.