I Like To Shoot My Friends...

This summer, my family was on vacation in my husband’s hometown.  We were going to visit the friend that he made on the playground when they were in elementary school.  All these years later, they’re still friends.  Now we have kids that are the ages they were when they met.  But OUR kids hadn’t met each other yet. 

When we pulled into the driveway, his four year old twins yelled and attacked our nine and six year olds with rubber swords.  An instant friendship was forged and the four of them were buddies for the rest of our visit. 

A few weeks ago, we were walking the halls of our kids’ school on back to school open house night, on the way to meet the first grade teacher.  As we headed to the classroom, my daughter realized the little girl walking next to her was looking for the same teacher.  She reached out and put her arm around the other girl’s shoulder and said “walk with me!”  She made a friend before even making it to the classroom. 

Remember when it was that easy?  You could spot a kid and just declare “you’re my friend” and there was no question about it. 

We grow up and it’s not so easy.  Adults make acquaintances through work or clubs or maybe hobbies but those aren’t necessarily the people we’d choose to play with on our playground.  For moms, it’s even trickier.  Just because our kids are friends, that shouldn’t mean that we moms need to hang out, too.  Liking your kid doesn’t mean I have to like you. 

Several days ago, I was in a social setting with a woman who has some measure of fame and we met through less than perfect circumstances.  I spent the evening talking with her and smoothing things over and we ended up laughing about the bumps in the road.  I really liked her and joked that I thought we should be BFFs.  We chuckled, exchanged pleasantries and said our goodbyes like grown ups do.  But I wasn’t exactly joking.  I kind of meant it. 

We grown ups get the short end of the stick with these things.  There really ought to be an easier way for adults to break through all the etiquette and propriety that’s expected of us so we can grab a potential new friend around the shoulder and say “walk with me” or be able to wield a rubber sword and yell “raaaahr!”  In fact, that’s exactly what I think we should be able to do. 

When I think about the friends who have been in my life the longest, they got there in less than usual ways.  My oldest friend, going back to 5^th grade, entered my life through a shared giggle over drawings made by another kid in class.  Later, we bonded over a rubber lizard.  We still talk about that damn lizard, decades later.   

Another friend, who entered my life some time around 1985, got there through a shared appreciation of root beer.  I was working the counter at a hotdog joint in my Florida beach town, he was visiting with a pack of friends from Atlanta.  I commented on his newly bleached hair and the root beer and, later that night, recognized the hair cruising the strip along the beach.  We stayed in touch and when I decided to move to Atlanta, I knew that I already had a good friend here.  Life goes on, our kids play together when they can, and he’s mentoring my daughters through their newfound love of superheroes and comic books. 

When I was in radio, another friendship began when a voice put together a silly spot for my air shift.  When I laughed heartily, it was clear that we shared a slightly off-kilter sense of humor.  He later led me to my life in advertising and would often join me in a nerf gun war in my office.  Now, he plays poker with my husband and is a fixture in both of our lives. 

So, given my history with friendships, why do I keep trying to make new connections the grown up way?  You’ve been warned, world!  If I bean you in the forehead with a nerf dart, it means I like you.  If you shoot me right back, we should probably go have a beer or something because you’re my kind of people.  Come on, walk with me!

What Ever Happened To My Mother's Daughter?...

My oven is in pieces in the middle of the kitchen.  It’s been on a slow decline for some time and the part that will hopefully return it to health should be arriving any day now and I’ll be cookin’ with gas once again!  Meanwhile, however, I’ve been handicapped with an inability to make a simple meal for my family for an entire week.

Fortunately, I live in the heart of civilization, with grocery store delis, pizza joints and fast food around every turn.  We’re not starving, but I can’t help but wonder what the heck happened to my mother’s daughter?

My mom took us camping at every opportunity.  I watched her produce wonderful meals using campfire and aluminum foil.  Camp stoves provided cinnamon rolls for breakfast.  When hiking, she would point out plants that, if necessity warranted, could be eaten.  She taught us not only to survive but to thrive!

Over the years, she was met with challenges that made daily routines difficult, but she prevailed.  When we lived in a vacant motel, with no kitchen and very basic plumbing, we still ate well.  Electric popcorn poppers, coffee makers, toaster ovens and the old trusty camp stove kept us fed.  Dishes were washed in the bathtub, coolers of ice stored our food.  And we thrived. 

Storms and power outages bring those long-ago skills out of storage and she continues to conquer the obstacles.  I should be able to do it, too!  Shouldn’t I?

The fact is, I can.  Sometimes.  I can engineer my way around some obstacles.  I could cook outside on the gas grill.  I have a crockpot and a rice cooker and, like every good American family, a microwave but I’ve become too soft.  Too pampered.  It’s just too easy to look outside for someone else (a restaurant or pre-made meal) to solve my problems.

I know what I CAN do.  I just don’t want to.  And in that realization, I have to look around and wonder what the heck happened to my mother’s daughter?

My mother’s daughter should go to work, come home and make dinner, make it to everything that matters, repair clothes, bake something wonderful, impart some wisdom, and heal wounds.  I go to work, come home with takeout more often than not, make it to everything that matters, replace clothes, buy cookies, tell stale stories and hope the Barbie bandaids will cut it.

Maybe one day my kids will tell people about how their mom could save the day every time.  But I guess I better start shopping for a campstove, an electric griddle and some bigger bandaids if that’s ever going to happen.