When you become a parent, there appears to be this unspoken rule that says you also need to acquire Parent Friends.
You know these people: they have a kid that’s the same age as your kid, they’re similar in age/sex/location, they are willing to accompany you to the park or zoo and are also willing to swap horror stories about bathtub pooping and night terrors.
They’re designed at a support system for you, your significant other, and your child or children. It’s FOR YOU….it’s GOOD….they know about KIIIIIIDS.
But you know what I hear when people talk about Parent Friends?
SOCIAL! CHATTY! FRIENDLY! SMILING! LYING! AND SAYING THAT YOUR CHILD IS SO CUTE EVEN THOUGH HE JUST CLOCKED MY DAUGHTER WITH A TONKA TRUCK!
And then I run screaming back to my sectional couch where I don’t have to interact with anyone that I don’t want to.
Because me? I’m not a social person. Like for reals. Sure I can fake my way through a luncheon. And yeah I can @reply up a storm on twitter. But actually liking face to face interaction enough to choose to participate in it? That’s not me.
So I suppose it should come as no surprise, then, that when one of the moms at daycare invited us all to her son’s birthday party, I lied and told her we were going on vacation. The only problem was that I used that same excuse last year. And she remembered.
(Cue backtracking and feigning date confusion and some version of “Oh, the twenty second? I thought you said the twenty seventh. No, the 22nd is fine, I think. I’ll let you know!”)
Oh, the humanity.
In truth, I just didn’t want to go because I hate parties and being social and having to talk to other people because I just don’t like it. I want to stay home or go to Disneyland or do something, anything, other than be forced to interact with other adults that I only kinda know because the conversation always devolves into trite pleasantries and awkward silences and dorky smiling. And then someone makes an off-hand remark about politics or vaccinations or home schooling and suddenly I feel frozen in time like deer in headlights. Only I can’t leap away quickly into the protective underbrush.
Then, in my head, it becomes: OMG, what do I do? How do they feel about these topics? What should I let on about how I feel about these topics? Why are we talking about these topics? Do they dislike me now? Do I now dislike them?
And trust me when I say that you’re not allowed to drink enough alcohol in these situations to both get comfortable AND still remain a responsible parent.
So forgive me if we ever meet and I opt out of a playdate or kiddo birthday. I know my child might have fun, but I’m still working on it. It’s not you, really, it’s me.
That’s OK to admit, right?
I’ve met one mom through day care and one at the playground. But I like the idea of spending time with them because we clicked. We met because we were moms, but I think we might be friends regardless of how we met.
There are a lot of moms in our neighborhood, and nearly all of us have kids who are the same age. I don’t know if I’d be friends with them under other circumstances. But I’m really surprised at what a *relief* it is to get together with them occasionally. Whether or not we’d seek each other out without proximity, they seem to be a group of women who are able to exchange experiences and ask for input while being confident about their choices–in other words, they may or may not agree with you, but they’ll get along with you either way. That’s not what I was expecting when I imagined it.