fast friends

I am amazed at the ease at which my daughter makes friends. What surprises me about these fast friendships is the intensity that develops between these girls. One trip to the ballpark to watch her brother play and suddenly Evita has a new best friend. “So-and-so is so nice and sweet and she is invited to my birthday party, ok?” What the fuck? One minute I am watching my son daydreaming in the outfield and next I am being told not only who will be attending her birthday party (4 months away). She runs up and deposits information to me in a burst: “hey mom, so-and-so loves hello kitty, just like me, and she has those cool shoes I want, but you say I can’t have, and she has a pool in her yard, not a big pool, but little like ours, and she has a pink bathing suit like me, and she has the same my little pets as me, you know the little turtle that is sooooo cute, and she is bringing all her little pets over to my house when she comes for the sleepover on Friday, and she likes ring pops like me, and they are only 50¢, so can I have one, and can I get one for so-and-so, did Nik bat yet, my friend and I are going over there to talk some more, oh, I almost forgot, I invited her to my party, you know, my birthday party, we need to make the invitations, ok, don’t forget.” And then she is gone. All I see is a ponytail and flip-flops running away from me. Every thing is one long sentence with lots of enthusiasm. I can barely digest what is being said to me. I end up nodding mutely, getting caught up in her bright blue eyes and the purple ring around her mouth from the last 2 ring pops. I am busy daydreaming about what the dentist will say about the condition of her teeth when it dawns on me that she has “informed” me that she has invited someone to spend the night. I am not even sure who this girl is but this is a minor detail. All I know is that there is a new member of the “ring pop posse.” This ring of girls all meet at the baseball fields, buy several ring pops from the concession stand and quickly abandon their parents. Every now and then I rise from my chair to look for Evita and the ring pop posse. I find her blonde head among many pony-tailed heads, sitting cross-legged in the grass, engrossed in conversation. Later, when I ask Evita what they talk about I am “informed” simply: “oh, girl stuff. You know, they are like, my best friends.” I tell her that I like ring pops, to which she replies, “yeah.” I am getting nowhere. How sad is this? I can’t make friends with women my own age and I am so not going to ever be a member of the ring pop posse.

What impresses me is the devotion that Evita has to these girls. She may only see these girls once or twice a week, but she considers them “friends.” When I ask what she likes about these various girls she starts listing their admirable traits, as well as, what she likes best about each one of them. “Friend X” is so nice, she always says nice things to me, and she was wearing the same band-aid I wore last week, not the same exact one, mom, but you know, we both had a Spongebob band-aid, but mine was on my ankle and her’s was on her arm, and she likes watching “max and ruby” just like me, and once, when I fell down, she didn’t laugh, she helped me up, and that was nice and made me feel better, and I like it when my friends help me when I am feeling sad, and once, she tripped and her flip-flop fell off and I picked it up for her, and she has long pretty hair and blue eyes, like me, and I like her.” Wow!

I think the difference is that Evita just believes the best of these girls. She operates by the “I am nice to you and you will be nice to me and that makes us friends.” If only life was that simple. I know that she will learn the same harsh lesson that I have: “I was nice to you, but you were not nice back and I thought we were friends, but I guess we have different definitions of what it means to be a friend, and because of you I now am afraid to extend myself to others.” I relish in Evita’s ease in making friends because these friendships seem so genuine. I understand that we all must endure the bitterness that life brings, that these life lessons are a necessary part of growing up. There is nothing I can do to protect my kids from discovering that people are not always nice. They must learn this lesson. The thought of watching them endure this is painful to me. I take the Scarlett O’Hara approach to this: “I will think about that tomorrow.” Tonight, I will enjoy watching Evita and the rest of the ring-pop posse practicing cartwheels and planning birthday parties that are 4 months away.

mirror images

I am watching my daughter play in the front yard. She has her back to me, but I know that she is talking to herself. She is animated, carrying on a conversation with her imaginary friend. When I ask her later, she tells me that her shadow is her best friend. I am watching her when I realize why it is that we have developed such a close bond. She is me. So much of me it is scary. I watch her play and I realize that I am watching myself at her age. I think of how much life she has before her and how much I want for her to do and see, all the things that I didn’t. I wonder if my mother felt the same way as I was growing up. She recently told me a story of when she was about 15, going to see the movie “Lillie” over and over again. She was drawn to the story of a young French girl, searching for love, discovering a life of her own. I happened to see most of the movie a few days later and watched with great interest. What was it that drew my mother’s fascination? Certainly the city of Paris was appealing, so different from her upbringing, and mine. A young girl, just on the brink of her adult life, with an endless variety of choices before her. Was it this that intrigued my mom? Did she sit in the theatre and wonder what her life would be like? Did she imagine herself walking the streets of Paris searching for the meaning of life? Did she just want to be in Paris and fall in love with the “wrong kind of man?” When I was 15 I wanted that. I wanted to be somewhere else, in a strange land, meeting strange, but interesting people. Perhaps, being the “stranger” would make me somehow more appealing. Ultimately that is the draw: to be more appealing, to be different in an interesting way.

I watch my daughter play and I wonder if she will see more of the world than my mother or me. New York was the most interesting place my mother ever saw. I cannot even claim this. I find that I am almost pushing the idea of spending a year in Paris onto my 6-year-old daughter. “Wouldn’t it be fun to see Paris? If you want to learn about art, the place you must go is Paris. French boys are really cute.” Am I turning into one of those mothers who live thru their children? In a way, yes. As much as my mother talked up the idea of “seeing what the options are” she never pushed me far from home. As her life unfolded and became set in stone, did she feel regret? My sister did the “Europe thing.” I recall my mother’s pure joy when a postcard would arrive from Austria or France. At the time I was 11 and remember thinking, “I can’t wait until it is my turn.” But I didn’t take my turn. Not that I didn’t have the chance, I simply didn’t take my turn. I made different choices.

What choices will my daughter make? Will I let her make her own choices? How much like me is she? Is she different enough to take advantage of all that is offered to her? Can I instill in her the confidence to be brave and try something new? Just how much like me is she? Thankfully there is lots of time ahead of her. Time to grow into her own person. A woman different from me.