Friends

The Husband thinks I obsess…and it is SO true. One of my obsession is friends….The Beast’s friends.

I would not say I have a lot of friends…mainly because of this blog… and my personality in general. But I have TRUE friends. And I think there is nothing more important in life than true friends. Ideally friends who have known you for a long time.

My best friend in the whole wide world is Ms. Filmmaker. She has always been crazy, silly, creative, deep and endlessly interesting to me. I met Ms. Filmmaker when we were both on our way to our first day of kindergarten. We chatted a mile a minute and giggled then and we do the very same thing today.

When the Beast started Public School I was frightened…very frightened. As I may have mentioned before—we were zoned to the one elementary school that was NOT artsy-farty… Many of the mothers looked like aging Barbies and the kindergarten class looked like a box full of Kelly dolls.

Taking a deep breath, I dropped my Asian/Hispanic looking child in to the mix. She loved the Kellies. She loved the long ,blond hair, the pink clothes, the blue eyes of the Kelly doll students, but sometimes they were friends and sometimes not. This was not the warm fuzzy German Pre-school where everyone played nice. This was not the “movement class” where all the kids dressed kooky.

We were now in the land of the pink Hello Kitty outfits and the light-up sneakers. The Beast’s red Blundie boots, the wildly striped winter tights and the Basque beret were a dead giveaway that we did not live in the development down the street. My vintage Saab, my basically all black wardrobe and distinct lack of make-up set us apart from day one.

I did not have the time nor inclination to start expanding my wardrobe color palette since I worked “Outside the Home” and the child had no intentions of giving up her beloved Blundies. But this turned out to be a good thing, because being yourself (as my mother always told me) is in the only way to find true friends. Plus we were too lazy to work on actually fitting in.

The Beast navigated quietly through a social network of queen bee girls (which we called the “pill girls” because they were really quite unpleasant) and found the interesting girls. We tried Daisy’s and we BOTH discovered one true friend each and then through love of art the Beast found another good friend.

The Beast is now in Middle School and the friend issue still lingers heavy on my mind not because she is lacking friends, but because I believe it is your friends more than your parents who truly help you navigate and succeed in the world. They are your mirror. We have been lucky—The Beast is still close to girls she met when she was three and her new friends all are interesting and nice. Once she entered the Middle School, where all the schools come together, the artys-fartys types now outnumber the more socially conservative groups and dressing kooky and doing interesting stuff is prized.

The beast still sees some of the queen bee girls from her old school and there is even a joke among her friends about one girl who was notorious for befriending girls and then dropping them. The joke is that all the “dropped” friends are forming a club called: “The Former Friends of XXXXX XXXXXX” since there are so many of them.

If you can’t join them—at least make fun of them.

The Question of Barbie

The look of pure bliss spread across her face as she pulled it from a just acquired hand-me-down little girl purse. There in her pudgy little toddler hand was a very tired Barbie...shirt torn, revealing one plastic boob, hair looking like Ken had roughed her up the night before... My first instinct was to snatch it from her fingers, to deny her this unreal image of womanhood. But I just couldn’t...I could see that in the few seconds she had spent staring into the blank plastic eyes of the doll—there was already a bond.

It was love at first sight.

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I know mothers often struggle with the idea of toy guns, but for me it was Barbie. Like a mother whose child has a peanut allergy, I had warned friends and family that we were not a Barbie household...I was always very clear about a no Barbie rule. How could I, a mother who I had spent months choosing a name for my daughter to reflect wisdom, strength and grace, allow this piece of plastic to take over a part of The Beast’s perception of the world?

Well...as any feminist mother will tell you --Barbies just happen...and as ANY mother will tell you....Barbies also multiply. Soon after the first Barbie incident, two more Barbies found their way into the Beast’s loving hands.

Lingering in my favorite thrift shop one lazy Saturday afternoon The Beast pulled from a lower shelf a large plastic box. The box opened to reveal what can only be described as some 1980’s bordello—flashing disco lights, a two sofas that could be pushed into a round bed and a lighted aquarium that popped up from the flashing multi-colored tile dance floor. On the floor of this disco palace lay two Barbies circa 1980...big hair, short skirts and plastic leather jackets—I have to admit that I was just as enthralled by the whole scene as was my daughter—but for different reasons. While I was scanning the miniature room for signs of tiny single edge razors and rolled hundreds...

My daughter closed the plastic case and clutched it to her chest.

“We are NOT bringing home that Barbie bordello.” I told The Beast is my quiet, but firm mother tone attempting to dislodge garish pink box from her monster grip.

“Barbie Dello! Barbie Dello!” The Beast pleaded.

We were by the check-out desk where two grandmotherly looking volunteers sat watching the scene. “Oh...the little girl wants the Barbie farm.”

“We are on a budget.” I explained

“Nonsense—how about $1?” said one with a warm smile.

“Wonderful.” I said...once again defeated by Barbie.

Of course the Barbie Bordello opened the flood gates--soon there were Barbie presents: the Barbie farm with the pigs with long lashes and blue eye shadow, the Jeeps, the vans, the Barbie jumbo jet, the My Size Barbie....the “marine biologist” Barbie in a bikini...some friend was obviously trying to be nice to me.

It was just a matter of time before the whole house looked like some lesbian prostitution ring had moved in with Barbies lingering in every dark corner in seductive poses with disheveled outfits falling off them.

Barbie had a her hey-day at our house, but she slowly started to vanish to the attic...occasionally a large box of Barbie stuff might be bumped down the attics stairs for a rainy day of play, but she was replaced by the American Girl Doll, Harry Potter, and now Twilight....makes me ALMOST nostalgic for the Barbie days.

Of course, until Ms. PR called last week, flushed with excitement....”Barbie’s 50th Anniversary! Bloomingdales! Let’s go!”

“Helllllo...Remember? I was the mother who did not like Barbies?” Trying to pull Ms. PR out of her girly frenzy.

“Well...it is not just about Barbie...it is the whole cultural subset of society that is being examined with a Marxist filter on consumerism.” she said in her best PR spin. “and all those cute little outfits!” she said unable to contain herself.

Barbie did not win this one.

Is Alcohol Appropriate?

That was a question a mother posed to me when I invited her and her Barbie-esque daughter to The Beast’s 4th birthday party—her Butterfly Birthday Party and I mentioned cocktails would be served (and noticing her look--not of delight, but horror) I added...to the adults..of course.

“Is alcohol appropriate?” Said the obviously perfect mom...or at least, the sober mom...

“My husband and I just survived four years of sleepless nights, yes alcohol is very appropriate for us, but the decision is purely personal—you can always opt for a juice box.” I said, trying to be inclusive, but feeling like I had stumbled upon a podperson from The Body Snatchers. I mean—really...who would give up a pleasant afternoon of sipping wine with friends as the children run wild for some higher ideal...like responsible parenting?

As it turned out, her daughter was suddenly busy that afternoon and subsequent ones...it is odd how that can happen. We were not even trying to weed The Beast’s social circle yet.