I don't exactly know where to begin.
Sometimes I feel compelled to state the obvious. Bear with me. I am a little slow, and "the obvious" is not always so obvious to me.
I live with three children. All of them are very comfortable leaning on, nuzzling into, and generally treating my body like a beanbag chair. Most children are like that. My daughters think nothing of climbing into my bed and burrowing into my flesh as though I were a favorite cushion. There is great security in that kind of physical intimacy. Children know this. We are all born knowing this, but at some point we forget. We grow up. We become independent. We stop snuggling close to our mamas and friends. (At least most of us do.)
Not too long ago my eldest daughter told me, "Mom, I just cannot even imagine you being a kid. You are just SO boring and grown up." I tried not to take offense. I am her mother, after all, and it is my job to encourage her to be sensible and not act like an idiot all of the time. I can totally see how she might interpret that as my being an impossibly boring grown up. This past weekend, however, I took that daughter to New York City to visit one of my dearest childhood friends. Do you know what happens when you meet a childhood friend again after a long absence?
You become sixteen (or twelve, or whatever) again. We, unfortunately, met up with Kirk at the hospital in Queens where he had undergone an emergency appendectomy (is there any other kind?) the night before, and the moment I saw him I squealed like a teenager and was running my fingers through his new short haircut before I even realized what I was doing. It didn't take long before I was in his hospital bed with him, curled up like an affectionate child. It was far more natural and comfortable to be squished up next to him in that single bed than it was to be seated politely like a grown up in the corner chair that was provided by the hospital.
It wasn't until sometime later the following evening when I found myself once again tucked up in bed with my old friend, that I realized that something wonderful and unusual was happening. I realized that, although I have many wonderful, warm, loving, and fun "new" friends, I rarely climb in bed with those friends and laugh so hard that one of us might literally bust a post-surgical gut. That is something that children and childhood friends do. There is something precious and irreplaceable about an old friend who knew you back before you got your act together and became a sensible grown up, a friend who loved you when you were awkward and had braces and glasses and a desperate crush on Michael J. Fox.
And I realized that for me childhood friends are exceptionally beloved treasures because I don't have any brothers or sisters. My close childhood friends are the ones who remember the way my mama used to laugh when we were kids, and those friends are happy to point out that I laugh exactly the same way now. My close childhood friends are enchanting characters in the archives of my soul. Their faces leap to my mind when I smell chocolate syrup and suntan lotion or when I binge out on candy corn. They remember the time my sweet grandmother let one rip at the dinner table and the ONLY time I got sent to the assistant principal's office. Kirk remembers that trip to the vice principal's office particularly well since he was sitting right there next to me after encouraging my irresponsible behavior, and as he retold that story this past weekend, I watched my daughter's face as her perception of her boring mama shifted. "You got in trouble once??" she asked incredulously, "That's awesome!!"
So not only did I get away to a great city this past weekend, but I also got to revisit some of the best parts of my childhood. I spent time with a friend who doubles as my own personal time machine. I have this sneaking suspicion that Kirk may have grown up some too, but I can't be completely sure because whenever we are together, we are teenagers again. We pick up right where we left off the last time we met, eating cookies and singing show tunes in bed. We share the comfortable intimacy of kids who don't know that it's weird to sit really close to each other, groom each other, and snort very unattractively as we laugh and laugh and laugh.**
Sometime soon I may write about the rest of our trip and Emma's first Broadway experience, but today, I just had to revel in the joyous afterglow of a weekend spent engulfed in joy and laughter just like the good ole days. Kirk, we didn't know it when we were singing opera in your living room after school or throwing strawberry milkshakes out the car window, but we were making sacred memories. I feel so blessed that you are part of my past, present, and future, and until we meet again, I will delight in memories of you that pop up unexpectedly in my brain like bubbles in a glass of celebratory champagne. I love you, Cletus, and from the bottom of my heart...
Sometimes I feel compelled to state the obvious. Bear with me. I am a little slow, and "the obvious" is not always so obvious to me.
I live with three children. All of them are very comfortable leaning on, nuzzling into, and generally treating my body like a beanbag chair. Most children are like that. My daughters think nothing of climbing into my bed and burrowing into my flesh as though I were a favorite cushion. There is great security in that kind of physical intimacy. Children know this. We are all born knowing this, but at some point we forget. We grow up. We become independent. We stop snuggling close to our mamas and friends. (At least most of us do.)
Not too long ago my eldest daughter told me, "Mom, I just cannot even imagine you being a kid. You are just SO boring and grown up." I tried not to take offense. I am her mother, after all, and it is my job to encourage her to be sensible and not act like an idiot all of the time. I can totally see how she might interpret that as my being an impossibly boring grown up. This past weekend, however, I took that daughter to New York City to visit one of my dearest childhood friends. Do you know what happens when you meet a childhood friend again after a long absence?
You become sixteen (or twelve, or whatever) again. We, unfortunately, met up with Kirk at the hospital in Queens where he had undergone an emergency appendectomy (is there any other kind?) the night before, and the moment I saw him I squealed like a teenager and was running my fingers through his new short haircut before I even realized what I was doing. It didn't take long before I was in his hospital bed with him, curled up like an affectionate child. It was far more natural and comfortable to be squished up next to him in that single bed than it was to be seated politely like a grown up in the corner chair that was provided by the hospital.
And I realized that for me childhood friends are exceptionally beloved treasures because I don't have any brothers or sisters. My close childhood friends are the ones who remember the way my mama used to laugh when we were kids, and those friends are happy to point out that I laugh exactly the same way now. My close childhood friends are enchanting characters in the archives of my soul. Their faces leap to my mind when I smell chocolate syrup and suntan lotion or when I binge out on candy corn. They remember the time my sweet grandmother let one rip at the dinner table and the ONLY time I got sent to the assistant principal's office. Kirk remembers that trip to the vice principal's office particularly well since he was sitting right there next to me after encouraging my irresponsible behavior, and as he retold that story this past weekend, I watched my daughter's face as her perception of her boring mama shifted. "You got in trouble once??" she asked incredulously, "That's awesome!!"
So not only did I get away to a great city this past weekend, but I also got to revisit some of the best parts of my childhood. I spent time with a friend who doubles as my own personal time machine. I have this sneaking suspicion that Kirk may have grown up some too, but I can't be completely sure because whenever we are together, we are teenagers again. We pick up right where we left off the last time we met, eating cookies and singing show tunes in bed. We share the comfortable intimacy of kids who don't know that it's weird to sit really close to each other, groom each other, and snort very unattractively as we laugh and laugh and laugh.**
Sometime soon I may write about the rest of our trip and Emma's first Broadway experience, but today, I just had to revel in the joyous afterglow of a weekend spent engulfed in joy and laughter just like the good ole days. Kirk, we didn't know it when we were singing opera in your living room after school or throwing strawberry milkshakes out the car window, but we were making sacred memories. I feel so blessed that you are part of my past, present, and future, and until we meet again, I will delight in memories of you that pop up unexpectedly in my brain like bubbles in a glass of celebratory champagne. I love you, Cletus, and from the bottom of my heart...
Thank you for being a friend!
**My husband wishes for me to note that he adores Kirk almost as much as I do, and that he fully approves of my being in bed with this "other man" all weekend. Had he been with us on this trip, I have no doubt that George would have joined us in bed and that he would have eaten more than his share of the Oreos.
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