The single hardest thing about leaving the work force and staying home, for me at least, has been the significant drop in adult interaction in my life since last June. And by significant drop I mean Dan is sometimes the only adult I see in an entire week, except dropping Joshua off at school.
No more idle chit chat over lunch about what was on TV last night, or politics, or the news, or being invited to go grab a drink after work even if there was a strong chance that I’d have to decline because, hi, two kids and one of them’s still on the boob.
Now I spend an inordinate amount of time talking about Wonder Pets, Angry Birds, Captain America and Mario Kart and what, exactly, Joshua would do if he encountered a special flower that let him throw fire balls and can I please look at Emma and make her say “brother” right now this very second and can I also get some more milk and a cereal bar and also sister is looking at me the world is ending because she is looking at me.
So I go to Twitter and say “OMG MY KID WON’T STOP TALKING AND I JUST NEED TO PEE.” And sometimes I get a few responses of “hang in there” but frequently I get nothing and then I’m all “oh, okay, so I’ll just stop my whining and keep on talking to myself inside my own head. Carry on then.”
But even if I do get to talk about those above things with people who live in my computer, it’s not always the same as a flesh-and-blood person sitting across from me having a conversation that makes my ears have to work to hear more than just the click click click click of my fingers on a keyboard.
Basically, my adult friends are Dan and two or three people who live here in the real three-dimensional world with me. And that’s it. And our lives are such that getting together regularly is really difficult. We’re all spread out, or they work during the day, or our kids have conflicting schedules.
I watch Joshua on the playground, and when he’s not growling at strange kids he’s got a gaggle of preschoolers following after him, playing chase, climbing structures, and asking to be his friend. (Yes. Growling. We’re working on it)
Imagine the shock on another mom’s face if, at the playground, the mall, wherever, I just walk up and say “Hi. I’m Miranda. Would you like to be my friend? Awesome. Now let’s go braid each other’s hair and gossip.”
If it were that easy, I wouldn’t be writing this. But it’s not that easy and so I am. Basically, I feel like I don’t know how to make friends.
Making friends used to come so easily to me. I used to be the girl who never met a stranger. And while I’ll talk to anyone about just about anything, I find that it’s increasingly harder to develop real friendships as I get older.
I know there are a few mom’s groups in the area because I’ve sniffed them out on the internet, but I’m scared to try them because what if they find out about this blog and read this and think I’m some kind of neurotic freak? What if they don’t like me? What if I don’t like them?
What if I’m too fat? Or too loud? Or too control-freakish? What if I try to compensate for some of those things and I become some sort of shy introvert?
What if I’m being judged for my choice of whatever choice it is that I’ve made??
I feel like my tolerance for bullshit has lowered considerably as I’ve gotten older. Either that or I’ve gotten more efficient at weeding out those relationships that I know will not put into my life what they’re taking out of it. Or both.
What I want in a friend is someone who doesn’t think twice about the fact that I maybe haven’t showered in 2 days, perhaps have hair that hasn’t been washed in 4, and who doesn’t stop to wonder just what, exactly, the mystery stain on my faded yoga pants might actually be. (Peanut butter, cheese, or drool. Probably even bits of graham cracker, if you’re wondering. None of which came from me. Thanks, Emma.) (Also, hi J. I just described you. ::smooches::.)
If you meet the above criteria, applications are now being accepted.
Judgy Judgers need not apply. I won’t let you take my soul.