Tagged!

Cady Gray came home today all excited. "Guess what I did at recess today?" she asked me. "I played tag with the boys! I played tag with the boys yesterday, too!" She went on to tell me which boys they were: I recognized several of the names as people she's identified as friends before, including one who lives in the neighborhood.

I get it. When I was her age, I was thrilled to be friends with the boys. That lasted my whole life, to the extent that I always felt more comfortable with guy friends than with girls. Up until now, I've been somewhat envious of her ability to make friends with other girls in her classes. They screech and giggle and run around just as girly as you please. But I've also always been glad that she takes pride in being not just a girl -- not just defined by pink and sparkly and frilly. She chooses to have a wide range of enjoyment -- things associated with girls, boys, and neither gender in particular.

But tag is an awesome game. And to be welcomed into somebody else's game of tag -- that's really special. I doubt that Cady Gray would be any less excited if a group of girls had asked her; in fact, she's told me with similar enthusiasm about rotations on the tire swing, games of pretend, and other activities that she's shared or joined with a variety of classmates.

I happen to be involved in a game of tag myself. For the fourth year in a row, I'm playing Dish Rag Tag, the exciting game of cotton yarn and serial knitting. A box travels from teammate to teammate around the country, with each person knitting a dishcloth from the same pattern for the person ahead of them.

 I was tagged earlier this week and had to wait an agonizing three days for the Priority Mail box to reach me. Inside was the pattern and instructions, a ball of cotton for me to knit with, and a finished dishcloth for me to keep. It's also a tradition to tuck a few goodies into the box (which is tiny -- so it takes some creativity to choose the right items!) for the downstream knitter. Our team, Purls Gone Wild, has also chosen to have each member add some stickers for the organizer's young daughter and a magnet commemorating their location for the organizer.

If only my mail came earlier, I would have a shot at getting the box, knitting the dishcloth (about two hours' work) and mailing it on to the next player the same day. Alas, my mail comes at the end of the day, so I spent the evening leisurely knitting the pattern -- a round eyelet cloth called "V for Victory" -- and will mail it out tomorrow morning.

 I almost didn't play Dish Rag Tag this fall because I was going to be traveling so many days out of the two months or so that the game lasts. But at the last minute, I just couldn't be left out. It took a lot of work for my team captain to accommodate my crazy schedule and create a tagging order that would get the box to me while I'm home, and I really appreciate the chance to be included. Last year I was a team captain, and my team formed an astounding bond of mutual support and enthusiasm; we still keep in touch.

 In the end, I still love to be asked to play with others just as much as I did when I was a kid. And after years of playing with the boys, it's especially sweet to find common ground with so many wonderful women in this game.

Social occasions

We are the beneficiary of generous friends who frequently invite us to their houses even though we never reciprocate.  Or, if you look at it from the other side, we are deadbeat guests who never fulfill our duty to take a turn as hosts.  The reason is our house, which is embarrassingly small, cluttered, and old-fashioned compared to the newer and larger houses of our friends.  I'll take the blame; I just haven't felt like I could expose the relative squalor in which we live until we had fixed up a few things.

Well, we have fixed up a few things.  The front yard is presentable from the street; the guest bathroom has flooring; the upholstery is free of obvious rips or cracks.  There's a lot that one might want further, like new carpet, paint on the walls instead of peeling wallpaper, and a complete redo of the kitchen, not to mention areas that casual guests don't see like the shower enclosures.  But updated and spiffy isn't necessary to provide hospitality; navigable, cleanish, and not immediately dangerous will do.

So we finally had our friends over, for the first time in years, as we hosted their kids for Archer and Cady Gray's double birthday party today.  And while there's never very much space for adult to sit while ten kids play, the occasion was still cozy and congenial.  It was kind of our friends to overlook our dereliction of duty for the past few years and share our company today.  I enjoyed myself and was surprised that the very few provisions I had made for the party attendees -- paper for art projects, an origami craft, and party hats that could be worn like Pikachu ears -- were huge hits, and occupied the kids as much as more elaborate games would have.

We're also the beneficiary of friends who don't treat entertaining as a competitive sport.  They're as easy-going and casual as any slackers like ourselves would want.  Otherwise we'd never have gotten away with sponging off of them for so long, or been treated as well when we finally, belatedly, stepped up.

Needing each other

It's the end of Superkids, a camp for K-2 students sponsored by my university's early childhood education program.  Our children have attended every year they've been eligible; Archer went for three years and Cady Gray has one more year to go.

So for five  years running we've heard the same songs at the graduation ceremony, with the same hand gestures and CD accompaniment.  Before the program began, Archer, sitting with me in the audience, told me how mixed up the track numbers and CD changes were before the leaders put all the songs on the same recordable CD.  His attendance coincided with the height of his obsession with digital displays and time.

Cady Gray is very receptive to the curriculum's message of empowerment through learning, high self-esteem, and the importance of friendship.  On our way home from dinner tonight, she essayed the proposition that friendship isn't a want, but a need.  I agreed, talking about all the things we can't accomplish by ourselves, and praising her and Archer for being good friends and giving each other someone to depend on and someone to trust.

I've had a number of good friends -- best friends, the kind that are needs and not wants -- in my life.  But I don't think of myself as a person who's good at friendship.  Social media has made it easier; I can be aware of people's needs, try to help when I can, and offer compliments and advice without relying on frequent physical meetings.  Because as a homebody, I treasure my family time and my solitude, and anyone who knows me would agree that I'm not proactively sociable.

Because easy friendship is not one of my talents, therefore, I treasure all the more the friends who stick with me in the most friendly of situations.  They invite my kids over, water the plants, pick up the mail, host the barbecues, stop by for the small talk.  The ones that are farther away remember the birthdays, check in regularly, play "remember when," and generally let me know that when needed, they will be there.

If July 4 is about anything, it is about solidarity.  Independence from a colonial power didn't mean individual freedom as much as it meant greater dependence on each other -- a need for trust, for solid relationships, for institutions, for respect.  I'm a huge fan of my individual freedom, but find myself nurturing a growing appreciation, year after year, for those who make themselves available as friends.  Thank you, one and all.

Friend and unfriend

Over the weekend, Cady Gray and I made these woven friendship bracelets out of strips cut from t-shirt scraps. She wanted to make three: one for her school friend Charlotte, one for her friend from preschool Tori, and one for a new friend she had just made at her summer camp.

On Tuesday, she took the bracelet to camp to give to that friend. That evening I asked her if she had bestowed the gift. Yes, she said, but the friend didn't want it and gave it to another girl.

Cady Gray was mostly philosophical about it, although I could tell that it confused her. I found it piercingly sad. A little girl, a handmade gift, a pledge of friendship -- refused, discarded, regifted.

Watching my daughter navigate the rapids of childhood relationships fascinates and terrifies me. The earlier friends I can remember that were of my own choosing, rather than the children of my parents' friends, came at a later age, maybe Archer's age of 8 or 9. There were kids whose friend I wanted to be who may not have been as keen on reciprocating. I'm not sure I had the capacity at her age to make such a personal gesture -- a friendship bracelet that I made and whose recipient I selected. It touches me to see Cady Gray light up when her peers want to spend time with her. And it hurts me on her behalf when these novice friends treat her affection cavalierly.

Branching out

Cady Gray and I got to spend the morning together, after a week of seeing very little of each other. I had a brunch date with The Sensible Seamstress, passing through town on her way home, and she was generously enthusiastic about Cady Gray joining us.

So I took my daughter to the coffeeshop for a morning of knitting and conversation. Her project is entering its latter half -- a new navy stripe joining the two stripes already done. We talked about technique, design principles, color theory, and fiction while we sipped our fancy drinks and wielded our needles.

Before long it was time to go to Stoby's to meet our out-of-town guest. A more pleasant breakfast in a cozier corner booth could not be imagined. We talked about our personal histories, mutual acquaintances, the writing life, plans for the future, and the friend whose life she had come to the area to honor. Cady Gray was thrilled to be included in the grown-up socializing.

All mothers think their daughters are the most beautiful and charming creatures on earth. And yet, I still think mine is extra special. I want to squeeze all the pleasure out of every moment I get to spend in her company at this remarkable stage of life, when she is discovering the power of her mind and heart when turned full blast on the people and objects that surround her. It's like witnessing the origin of a superhero. And my only desire is to be there as it happens.

Sleepover

Cady Gray's oldest friend, the daughter of a colleague who moved away a few years ago, is in town. The two have been keeping in touch via scrawled notes and little treasures sent through the mail, and when Cady Gray heard she was coming to visit, she was thrilled and could talk of nothing else.

Tonight Soli is coming over for a sleepover. It's surely one of the rites of passage of elementary school, and I remember a few from my childhood well. On the other side now, I wonder how to handle my parental responsibilities. Should the kids be given a lights-out time? Are snacks required? Can I still go wake Cady Gray up before I go to bed to take her to the bathroom, as I usually do? If I ask Archer to loan his sleeping bag so the girls can both sleep on the floor, should I offer to let him camp out on his floor tomorrow night?

My sleepover memories are mostly from a later period in my childhood -- one where listening to records and watching late-night TV were the main activities. But the feeling of being part of an exclusive group and sharing stolen moments with friends is my dominant impression of those occasions. It's interesting and touching to see Cady Gray embark on those kinds of friendships.

Last night some worsted saved my life

I got some very bad news last night. No, it's not about the health of anyone close to me; we're all well and happy. I can't divulge it because it's not my place to do so. But this post isn't about what the news is -- it's about my reaction to it.

I cried for a while, ranted and raved to Noel about how unfair it was, grieved silently, indulged in morbid speculation about the future. Then I picked up the sleeve of Cady Gray's cardigan and got to work.

What would I do in a moment like this, a moment when a dream is dying and I can't imagine what comes next, without her half-finished sweater? Above all, bad news makes you feel impotent. There's nothing you can do to stop it. A worrier like me spins a thousand scenarios, each worse than the last, about what might happen. But there beside me is something I'm creating. Something beautiful and functional. Something, most importantly, under my control.

It sounds melodramatic, I know. But I believe knitting is saving me from despair. I'm bringing about change. I'm using my hands, my brain, the labor of others who made the raw materials, to clothe my daughter. I'm moving forward, stitch by stitch, row by row.

Each time I pick up the needles, I remind myself that there is always a way to create. There is always the ability to share in the creativity of others. There is always beauty to bring into the world. There is always trust in one's own abilities that is necessary to make the leap from raw materials into the process of making. There is always thankfulness for the opportunity to turn yarn into fabric, and fabric into warming, comforting, protecting, inspiring, loving shelter for myself and those I love.

My grief will always be with me; I know that by experience. But it can be transformed. Because I am a knitter.

Tonight is kinda special

After a day of meetings, sessions, reunions with colleagues, papers, and (I must admit) a 90-minute nap in the early afternoon, I had the singular pleasure of visiting the Chicago home of my dear old friend and A.V. Club colleague Scott for drinks, dinner, and baby playtime tonight.

I've known Scott since the early nineties, when we were both at the University of Georgia. There's no one who's stood by me so consistently through good times and bad. He was there for me when I married Noel in 1996; I was there for him when he married Allison in 2004.

Now he has the most beautiful nine-month-old girl, Isabel. Her big eyes and curious, fearless personality captivated me. Keith and Stevie were there, and we ate fajitas, drank margaritas, and talked politics and family vacations for hours. (Keith's story about his family trip to Terre Haute had me gasping for air.)

I'm scheduled to the hilt at this meeting -- witness the second 7 am breakfast meeting in a row tomorrow. It's a very different experience than the freedom of my first decade or so of annual meetings, when I would go to whatever sessions I chose, pop into the receptions for my alma mater and publishing house and theological institute on various evenings, and set my own schedule otherwise. When more people know you, when you are in positions of responsibility, you are obligated to many groups, and free time is minimal.

But thank goodness there are non-academic friends to whom I am also obligated, who whisk me away from the professors and plans and papers for an evening of pure friendship. I'm invigorated and comforted by their hospitality. Scott and Alli, Keith and Stevie -- my thanks.

Reunited ...

... and it feels so gooooood ...

The seventies station to which I often listen while driving around town alone played that Peaches & Herb song today. (Fun fact: There have been five different Peaches, while Herb has remained constant. The third Peaches, Linda Greene, is the one featured on the group's biggest hits, "Reunited" and "Shake Your Groove Thing.") I was pulling out of a parking lot at the time, and as always happens when I hear that intro, I remembered a church trip to Six Flags Over Georgia when I was fourteen years old.

I wonder if the best friend who belted out the song with me on that bus remembers the moment like I do. We were inseparable for four years of elementary school. She lived at the bottom of the hill; I lived at the top. On summer days I'd follow the narrow trail through the undergrowth that separated her street from time and visit the little house where she lived with her mother. We'd listen to the music and watch the television shows that weren't entirely welcome at my house. Her life as the only child of a single mother was surely far from perfect, but from my privileged yet culturally restricted standpoint, her home was a paradise.

Although we went to different high schools, we spent time together at church. Something about our senses of humor clicked, and side by side we nourished mutual obsessions with the Beatles and the original cast of Saturday Night Live. That 1979 early morning pulling out of the church parking lot with the rest of the youth group, when "Reunited" came on the radio, it was like there was no one in the world but us. We put our arms around each other's shoulders and sang our hearts out.

This week in Popless Noel is writing about "Naive Melody (This Must Be The Place)," which is "our song"; it was playing when Noel proposed in 1995. Most of us probably have songs like that in our lives. But I'm intrigued by the songs that define moments meaningful to us and possibly no one else. What songs never fail to bring back memories for you?

Friends

Centuries of wisdom agrees with the findings of social science: It's important to have friends. Those who have a support system in times of trouble, those who are able to share deep feelings or difficult decisions with others, are better able to negotiate life's pitfalls than those who don't. And of course, intimate relationships of mutual trust and enrichment are part of what makes human life worth living, as anyone who's had a close friend can attest.

I've never felt very good at making friends. In school I had very close friends with whom I was thrown together by the winds of fortune; feeling excluded from more conventional circles of interest, popularity, or ability, we formed our tight geek bonds. Those friends from elementary school (like Cheryl, who recently and to my great delight commented on this blog) and high school (like Margaret, Louise and Vickie) and college (like Celina and Scott) still make up the bulk of the very best friends I feel I will ever have.

But I don't feel that any particular facility of mine at the art of friendship is responsible for our relationships. I was a loner throughout most of my adolescence, firm in my belief that I could do as well or better on my own than in company with anyone, certain that relationships were simply opportunities to be embarrassed or to disappoint someone. The close friendships I had in my youth seem to me more flukes than accomplishments -- the exception that proves the rules of my antisocial tendencies.

I started changing in graduate school. For whatever reason I began to enjoy the spotlight -- I liked being the center of a group of friends, and I felt comfortable spending time (and lots of it) hanging out with people who liked me. And anyone who meets me now probably wouldn't believe that I was once a confirmed introvert; I'm an effusive, shameless loudmouth who is constantly hugging on people and exhibiting oversized emotions. I like the company of others and enjoy socializing. Sure, I still enjoy retreating into my books and blogs and knitting, and look forward to conference travel where I can overdose on solitude when I choose. But I'm not a loner by nature anymore. The social me is the real me, not a front.

Yet I have no more close friends than I've ever had, for all that I hang out and feel comfortable with a wider variety of people. There are individuals who are adept at inviting people into their lives and making intimacy comfortable; I've known them and I'm grateful for them. But I'm not one of those people. I have to be invited -- I feel false doing the inviting.

We heard from Archer's teacher a few days ago that he was unintentionally overlooked when it came time to claim rewards for having a perfect behavior record for the week. For Archer, the whole world hangs on predictability and routine -- that schedules are followed, that promises are kept, that cause leads to effect. I can only imagine the fracture in his autistic psyche if what he is owed, what he is expecting, doesn't come to pass. Everything falls apart if he can't use what he knows to predict what will happen -- it's the crux of the way he's laboriously learned to deal with this strange alien world.

Luckily for Archer, he has a friend -- or as close a version as a socially-impaired six-year-old like him can have. Savannah, a girl who was in kindergarten with him, has decided to take care of him; she leads him around in the cafeteria and draws him into games at recess. She took matters into her own hands and brought him up to the teacher after he wasn't called up to get his reward, and the matter was rectified -- not before Archer's fragile sense of order started to crumble, but everything was eventually set right.

What friendship will mean for Archer as he grows older, I don't know. For now, it's enough that he knows that there is someone who takes care of him, someone who will seek him out for whatever reason. He barely speaks to other children or meets their eyes, although the light in his face when other children speak to him is overwhelming. I hope he will have friends, though I'm pretty certain he'll never have dozens. In my experience, a few are enough, if they're the right ones, and if you can keep them.