Adjusting

"I don't ever want to go outside again," he yells at me. It's a gorgeous day, and we've got a playground within shouting distance of our building. He can hear the kids laughing and screaming out there. All those kids, friends with each other, none of them friends with him. I know it seems that way. "We've got to get out there if we want to meet new people," I insist.

At the playground, he hands me a light saber. "Why don't we find another kid to play with?" I suggest. Mommy is old, and tired of playing Star Wars. The place is crawling with kids, after all. Many of whom are eyeing our light sabers with great interest.

Henry shakes his head. "I only play with my family," he insists. But he's watching an older boy, a charismatic type being chased by a young girl, possibly his sister. I can see the mechanisms whirring. Willing to play with younger kids. Likes to be chased. I like to chase. "I'm going to ask him to play," he whispers to me, but just as he approaches, the kid takes off abruptly with his dad. It looks to me like they're just taking a restroom break, but even after they return a few minutes later, Henry never tries again.

It's hard to make friends. You want to rush things. In a way, I'm jealous of Henry. I miss the days when you met someone and because you both liked the same things (Barbie? Swings? Creative nonfiction?) you were instant friends. All it will take for him to make a playground friend is eye contact with one kid, just one, someone to run around with. But he keeps his eyes on me. I want to tell him he doesn't know how easy he has it. As if that would work.

So I take matters into my own hands. There's a boy who seems to be around Henry's age playing near us. "Are those Ben-10 sneakers?" I inquire, and the boy nods and starts to list his favorite Ben-10 characters. Henry rolls his eyes violently. "I already know about that," he says, and takes off down the slide. The boy and I watch him, and we shrug at each other. Kids. What can you do. Meanwhile, Henry is eyeing a group of boys playing ball with each other. Boys who are way too busy doing their thing to notice the straggler in their midst. Oh, Henry. But of course I do the same thing. Why does this person want to be my friend so badly? Is there something wrong with her? On the other hand, what's that group of cool-looking parents over there, and how can I talk to them? I can't. God, I'm lame.

It's hard. I know it will get easier. But I still hate this part.

Comments

[Angie]

I cannot tell you how many times I have had that same thought, "what is wrong with this person that they would want to hang out with me?"

It will get easier, but I can SO relate.

[AZ Writer]

I just came home from a birthday party -- I was the one THROWING it, for my son -- and I still had a hard time talking to the parents, all of whom seem to be friends already. I really hate this part. You captured it perfectly. My son, who is just as new to the neighborhood as I am, raced around screeching with two other boys. One was mean to him for a second. Tears, then cake and candy and back to being friends. They really do have it pretty good.

And Ripjaws is my favorite Ben 10 alien, or possibly Wildvine. Unless we're talking Ben 10 Alien Force, in which case I'm still undecided.

Why is it I can't make adult friends again?

[Beth]

O, o, o. I moved to SF pregnant and was ready to shoot myself when my kid was 6 months old, and somehow I overheard a woman talking about her son's birth on the same weekend in the same hospital as my daughter's. So I kind of pounced on her. Fortunately she turned out to be young and French and a social butterfly and invited me into her mom's group and THANK GOD I mustered up that courage because I did make some great friends. But the year before that was blisteringly awful, and I came from NY and kept thinking, what IS it with these Californians? they smile and smile but never connect, whereas New Yorkers are brusque and rude and totally go out of their way for you if they decide you are smart enough to bother with, even if they don't know you.

Now my daughter? She's three and got told point-blank by a couple of nasty 4-year-old girls that the block area at school was "only for 4-year-olds." I was there for the day, and with her, and I looked down at her and said, "Sweetie, what did those girls say to you?" in a curious way. And she looked up at me and said firmly, "Mommy, I do not know." And swanned haughtily away. I'm hoping that Teflon ego stays with her.

[nina]

Aaagh. If anyone had warned me that I would have to relive the nightmare of finding friends again when I had a kid, I probably would have rethought the whole venture. I don't care so much now about finding friends for myself, what with established friendships maintained by the interweb and such. But my little girl tries, and misses. Heartbreak(mine, she doesn't really seem to mind) Then tries again, and connects, for an hour at the park. (whoohoo both happy). Then we leave and come back the next day, and try again. It helps to know we aren't alone. Good luck.