I lowered the carrier's canopy. The baby grunted awake. Evie
stood up and I followed her back downstairs to Lisa.
Lisa was Evie's mother. I adored Lisa, just loved her. She was funny,
open, smart and often exasperated just like me. She was one of
the few mothers I'd met who I was completely at ease around. I was
only a half-hearted user of the modern parenting vernacular, so when I
was too tired for "I" statements or imploring my daughter to "use her
words," around Lisa I wasn't embarrassed to tell Beatrice "No!" or "Quit
whining." I told Lisa how I locked Beatrice out of my room to keep from
coming unglued one afternoon. And how I shouted at her once so loud that
I had a sore throat for two days. No gasps. No judgment. She got it. She
made parenting drama feel less, well, dramatic.
Lisa and I met setting up for a rummage sale at our daughters'
preschool. Pricing stacks of stained bedspreads could forge a bond even
between polar opposites, but Lisa and I had much in common. We were new
to a city where we were surrounded by wealth while our own families just
got by. We were blue in a state of red. Lisa liked to read. I liked to
write. She had mother problems. I had father problems. Our mutual
attraction was instant. Girl crush? Maybe. It was just so easy with
Lisa, easy and fun. We had the makings of Oprah and Gayle, without
stylish pantsuits.
But we didn't come alone.We had the makings of Oprah and Gayle, without stylish pantsuits.
Behind a fold-out table of rummage-sale VCRs and gently used Naturalizer
slip-ons, Lisa and I pointed at our daughters through a window to the
playground. Beatrice held on tight in a swing, while another girl
carefully pushed her higher. Evie was dumping wet sand and dirt at the
bottom of a slide, while James stood at the top crying.
"That's mine over there," Lisa said, "playing with James."
Our first playdate: Lisa's house. Things fell apart quickly — screaming,
tears, yanking, pouting. Anesthetizing them in front of a Little Bear
DVD didn't help — Evie kicked at Beatrice until she cleared the
three-seater sofa facing the screen. The girls were tired, I reasoned.
And it's hard to share your own space and toys. The next time, we
brought new ones, two of everything. Evie took both. The rest was a repeat.
We tried again, this time outside. In the wading pool, Evie blocked
Beatrice from the tiny slide. She pushed her in the water, hogged the
hose and threw grass. I tried getting Beatrice to stand up to her, to
at least tell her "no," but it wasn't in her personality to fight back.
In hindsight, she was probably scared.
This went on. Sure, Lisa did all the right things — time outs,
consequences, "I" statements, words. Sometimes she unraveled and let
loose an old-fashioned verbal smackdown. Lisa didn't flinch the few
times I barked at Evie. But that was hard for me, disciplining a
friend's kid. And draining. Plus, it never changed anything. Evie didn't
sweat me.
©2007 Madeline Holler and Nerve Media
About the Author
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Madeline Holler is a writer and mother of two. She lives in Long Beach, California. |
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