Friends are not friends forever despite what Michael W. Smith says

While driving to soccer practice, my 10-year old daughter chatters non-stop.  One day she mentioned that she and a teammate want to have a playdate.  I suggested the waterpark or the beach and then she said, “It’s weird.  Whenever I go someplace like that I always meet someone and make a friend.  And then I never see them again.”

I said, “Yes, they are just friends for a day, huh?”

I hate the idea of a friend for a day.

Don’t get me wrong.  I love the occasional conversation you have with a stranger you meet in random circumstances:  in the airport or the beach or while walking your dog down the street on a balmy Southern California morning.  I like a temporary intersection with an acquaintance or the getting-to-know you exchange of information and ideas with a potential friend, even if nothing really comes of it.

But what I hate is the abandonment of old friends, dear friends, those friends who have toured the inside of your heart and seen you cry.  I hate it and I don’t understand it.

Maybe I am that kind of person, the kind of person who walks away and forgets her friends, the kind of woman who drifts away on the currents of busyness, the loser who plain-out abandons her friends.  But I don’t want to be like that.  I don’t think I am like that.  I spend a lot of time wondering if I am.  Is it me?

Admittedly, I am an introvert, one of those weirdos who would choose reading over partying.  I am never the life of the party, like some people I know.  I don’t gather people to me like a magnet.  I like solitude and peace and quiet.

But when I find a friend, when I connect with someone on a deeper level, when I find someone who laughs at my jokes  and makes me laugh, who “gets” me, I treasure that person.  Over the years, I’ve had some of the most amazing friends.  We have walked parallel paths as we became wives and mothers.  We’ve shared our lives, our sorrows, our gripes, our dreams, our fears.  We have history together.

But at some point, silence has crept in.  Distance both geographical and emotional has turned from space into a wall, an impenetrable wall without a gate.  I’m alone.  I don’t know why.

I don’t have forty-seven other friends tucked away in a banquet room.  I have loved these few friends with devotion and faithfulness.  I have saved every letter these friends have ever sent yet I feel like my actual friendship has been shredded and tossed out in the recycling bin.  (I know.  Real letters with handwriting and postage stamps and everything!  So old-fashioned.)

Sure, this could just be life, that time in the life-cycle of an American female human being when she only sees her children and her husband and her job and her to-do-list, but I have a hole where those friends used to be.

I can’t stop probing the hollow space.

*

p.s.  I already know that some friends are “for a season” and some are “for a reason” and all that trite stuff.  I just feel a sense of abandonment and it’s probably me, not you.  I don’t need advice or comfort.  I just wanted to stay what I’ve been thinking because it helps me think better and sort through things.  (I almost didn’t post this but I can’t seem to post anything else until this post stops blocking the traffic in my head.)

Friends are not friends forever despite what Michael W. Smith says

Excuses

My daughter is 10 and she never seems to be tired even though she regularly moans, “I am so tired.”  Today, she attended Jr. Lifeguard Camp where she learned CPR and how to save someone from drowning.  She had to jump in the pool and drag out a lifeguard who pretended to be in dire straits.

I picked her up at the waterpark after six hours of camp and headed immediately to the doctor for an appointment where the doctor questioned her and listened intently in an effort to figure out why her ankle hurts sometimes.  (Likely diagnosis:  Tendonitis.)  The x-ray results will confirm the diagnosis tomorrow.

Anyway, after that, we returned home for a short time where she changed clothes again.  Time for soccer practice!  While she practiced, I read in the car.

It was nearly 8 PM when we got home and I took a quick nap before working. While my daughter avoids naps at all costs, I try to nap whenever I can.

My daughter finally drifted upstairs and went to sleep.  She has camp again in the morning.  She will be groggy when I wake her at 7:30 AM but not as groggy as I will be.

*

My husband’s gone to Minnesota for a week’s worth of meetings.  I’m home as usual working, driving kids here and there, doing laundry, occasionally grumbling, and wishing for more sleep.

And that’s why there’s no time to write anything decent in this blog.

 

Excuses

Twenty-six

My 10-year old is attending the local Vacation Bible School this week at a church just a few minutes from our house.  This is good because I can stay asleep until the very last minute.  She is old enough that I can drive her to the church door and drop her off, no walking in required. I do not have to appear in public.

So I drop her off–getting up only six hours after I go to sleep–and then returning home to walk the dog, work, shower, pick her up at noon, work, drop off another kid at work, work, work, work, wonder what to make for dinner and so on and so forth.

I am sleepy.

Yawning.

Only two more days and then next week . . . Junior Lifeguard Camp.  I’m not sure exactly what that entails (besides a new one-piece Speedo), but I do know that all next week, I’ll be waking up early to get her off to camp.  Fortunately for me, another mom and I are sharing carpool duties.  She will do the morning drop-off and I’ll do the afternoon pick-up.

Just for kicks, this Saturday I have to get up before the sun gets up to drop off my husband at the airport.   It’s like the universe is conspiring against me and I’ll never get to sleep eight hours in a row again.

*

In other news, today is my twenty-sixth wedding anniversary.  I married my husband when he was 26, so now he’s been married as long as he was not married.  They say the first twenty-six years are the hardest, so I expect it will be all sunshine and rainbows from here on out.

Actually, he’s such a good husband and father that I’ve always known marrying him was the best decision I ever made.  I do feel sorry for him sometimes because he has to live with me and my accompanying ridiculousness but he’s been a good sport and never tells me that my hair looks terrible, for instance.

He did not know what he was getting himself into when he said, “I do” all those years ago–and neither did I.  How can you know when you’re standing there in your home-sewn taffeta gown in front of God and everybody and you’re only twenty-two and you don’t yet know that your husband-to-be hates maps?  And you don’t know about the rocks in the road or the detours or the dangerous stretches ahead?

But I still do and he still does and that will get us through the next twenty-six years.

Twenty-six

If it’s four o’clock, that means I have no idea what to cook for dinner

One of my favorite shows to watch is Chopped on the Food Network.  Have you seen it?  Four contestants are given a basket of “mystery” ingredients and they must concoct an appetizer in twenty minutes.  One contestant is chopped, then the remaining three get a basket of more “mystery” ingredients and in a slightly longer time-frame, they must create an entree.  Another contestant is chopped and the remaining two contestants compete in the dessert round.

The “mystery” ingredients are always odd, sometimes stuff I’ve never even heard of, other times, ingredients that would confound and sicken me (a whole sheep’s head, anyone?) and sometimes they’re just weird (a box of chocolate covered donuts for the entree round, for instance).

My whole life is an episode of Chopped except that I have a pantry rather than a basket and I don’t have any fancy kitchen gadgets and I am not a creative cook and I would rather be pretty much anywhere than the kitchen.  (Oh, and I have no camera crew, no good pot-holders, merciless judges, no training, and no possibility of winning $10,000.)

So today, after work at about 3:30 PM I was lying in bed playing Candy Crush on my phone when it rang.  My husband called and I told him I was trying to figure out what to make for dinner and he suggested:

  • Meatloaf
  • Spaghetti
  • Hamburgers

I shot down each suggestion because I didn’t have any thawed ground beef or sausage (which I use to make spaghetti sauce).  After I hung up the phone to continue losing Round 65 of Candy Crush, I pondered what I could make.

I did a Google search for a recipe for “Cheeseburger Soup.”  Doesn’t that sound like it’s a recipe?  I didn’t find it.  Then I thought maybe stuffed cabbage.  I settled on Porcupine Meatballs.

Not that I’ve ever made them but a quick scan of the recipe showed common ingredients.

I started gathering ingredients and thawing the meat and grabbing giant bowls and turning on the oven and all that jazz.  As if I were a real cook.

Then I remembered the recent incident of the Rice in the Pantry in which I discovered little black rice-shaped bugs crawling in the long-grain white rice. (Welcome to Southern California.)

At this point, a Chopped contestant would come up with a brilliant and tasty substitution.  I went upstairs, fixed my hair, slapped on enough make-up to disguise my utter fatigue and went to the grocery store to spend $2.69 on a bag of rice.

Start to finish, cooking dinner took me two and a half ridiculous hours.

Everyone liked the meatballs, mashed potatoes and asparagus.  And I did not serve any bugs with my rice, but I did hear a report of a Bernese Mountain Dog hair in a meatball.

And that, my friend, was my mystery ingredient.

(Sadly, I was not chopped.  I will appear in the kitchen again tomorrow night at 4 PM with absolutely no idea what to make for dinner.  I just hope the mystery ingredient isn’t rattlesnake meat.)

 

If it’s four o’clock, that means I have no idea what to cook for dinner

Like sand through the hourglass

DSC06471-001

As we drove to the beach tonight to meet friends, I doubted.  I felt disconnected and unsure of myself.

There’s really only one thing to do when you feel that way.  Do it anyway.  Go.  Be interested.  Stop gazing at yourself in the mirror and just grab the beach bag and forget what you hate about your reflection and go.

So, we arrived and found a parking place, connected with some people we knew and had a great time.

And afterward, I felt sandy and sticky and a little more connected than before.

Like sand through the hourglass

Feelin’ groovy

Summer used to last longer.  I’m not sure whether we can blame global warming or the economy or Barack Obama, but someone did something unauthorized and now summer flashes by like lightning.

Don’t you remember being a kid and swimming through a summer day as if it were an ocean?  And you’d get so bored because the days lined up in a single file line that stretched a thousand miles between the last day of school and the first day of school?  You’d get sick of sitting in the dark living room watching the Electric Company with the drapes closed because you were bored with going outside and riding your banana seat bike around the block to visit all the off-leash dogs in their yards because you did that a million times already, almost as many times as you stubbed your bare toes and dripped melted Popsicles down your arms.

Now, you look up and find yourself practically in the middle of July and school starts in the middle of August and your daughter hasn’t finished that multiplication tables book and your son hasn’t started his summer reading and why, oh why, is summer almost over?  You haven’t had enough fun yet.  You haven’t even had a single Popsicle.

You could even prove to yourself that summer is fading away by going into Target and noticing the school supplies replacing the pool toys.  And you are tempted to buy more Crayola crayons until you realize that your kids don’t really color anymore, except for your baby girl who just got her ears pierced and thinks she is mostly grown up. And you have twenty packs already that you discovered when you moved two years ago, though who’s counting?

I’m a little bit upset about summer breaking the speed limits.  It’s a symptom of a much bigger problem, namely the probably of my rapid aging.  I read an article the other day by 80-year old Oliver Sacks called The Joy of Old Age and while I hoped that it might be true (the joy of old age), mainly I feel grim about the sands of time sliding in a great avalanche which leaves me sputtering and wondering how my babies grew so fast.  Why didn’t I take more pictures? My imaginary To Do List is pages long and I have barely even gotten started.  (For instance, I meant to travel back to Tahiti and yet I haven’t even had a valid passport in dozens of years, ever since that one I got when I was sixteen and still wearing that lavender crew-neck sweatshirt every day.)

I’m not really fighting it, though.  When I recently noticed a cluster of gray hair at my part–well, “cluster” might be an exaggeration, but at the sight of that gray, I decided on the spot to stop highlighting my hair and to revert to my natural hair color, only this time with strands of gray running through it.  This is as glamorous as it sounds.

How can you fight aging?  You can either let the future drag you along by your graying hair or you can stand up and keep moving.  Try to keep up.  Leave a trail of breadcrumbs, not that you’ll ever be able to go backward.  You can pretend that one day you’ll meander back and notice the things you missed the first time you jogged past.

Tomorrow we’re going to the beach.  I don’t want to hear that we’re less than six months away from Christmas.  SLOW DOWN.  You move too fast.

You’ve got to make the morning last.  (Okay, so I just drifted into a Simon and Garfunkel song . . . did you hear the tune in your head?  If so, you are ALSO OLD.)

 

 

 

Feelin’ groovy

I’ve really got nothing to say

I actually started a post on a particular topic the other night but it was very late and I was very tired and so the opening paragraphs of the post sit in my “drafts” folder.  I will finish it at some point.

But that doesn’t help you, does it?  (All three of you who read here.)   You’re wondering what’s happening in my life, right?  Ha.

We have a houseguest, the girlfriend of one of my sons.  She is a delight to have around.  Grace treats her like royalty and a sister rolled into one.  Having a houseguest is a constant reminder to me to wash another load of bath towels because we are constantly out of clean towels because my children can’t seem to use a towel more than once before leaving it in a damp pile on the floor.

On Saturday, some of us went to the beach for the afternoon.  I inched my mini-van into a parallel parking spot, backing up, cranking the wheel one direction, backing up another inch, cranking the wheel again, over and again about ten times.  Normally I am a competent parallel parker but for some reason, the car behind me on the road decided to stop right behind me while waiting for me to park, totally cramping my style.

Finally parked, I opened the back of the van and pulled out beach chairs and discovered my umbrella was missing.  My husband had just taken my mini-van in to have it washed and vacuumed and I figured the umbrella was removed from the back and mistakenly not put back.  Not having a beach umbrella is certainly a first-world problem, but I was upset about not having it.  Luckily, I had sunhats and sunscreen, so we managed.  Having a beach umbrella once seemed like a fanciful luxury to me but now it feels like an essential.  How did I live without a beach umbrella?

Two days later, my husband and I were talking about the missing umbrella again.  And as we talked and considered where it could be, I suddenly remembered propping it against a chain-link fence at a park weeks earlier when my daughter had a soccer scrimmage.  When I propped it, I said to myself, “Don’t forget this umbrella.”  And then the game began and ended and I walked to my mini-van and completely forgot my umbrella.

I wonder if that park has a Lost and Found.  I wonder if someone absconded with my umbrella.

*

You know what’s weird?

I found a Post-It note on my desk.  It’s in my handwriting, so clearly I wrote the note.

But it makes absolutely no sense.  It says this:

“accidentally kill

Meat Eaters

woman like two”

WHAT IN THE WORLD?  The three lines seem unconnected.  I just have no idea what it means.  Am I composing Haiku, only not?  Have I begun writing a novel about Meat Eaters who accidentally kill, only not?  HAVE I LOST MY MIND?  Why is Meat and Eaters capitalized?  I can’t bear to throw away this nonsensical note until I can figure out why I wrote it.

*

This week my daughter has soccer camp and one of my sons is helping at Vacation Bible School at church.  One of my sons is employed and the other is hanging out with his girlfriend.  I am just trying to stop myself from losing personal belongings and from writing myself cryptic Post-It notes.

Wish me luck.

I’ve really got nothing to say