My daughter walked in to the wide open gym, excited about her week at camp. Her first full-day camp. She was looking forward to playing with kids her age, swimming a ton and hoping someone would play Mermaids with her in the pool.
We had originally signed up for camp because we thought friends of ours were going to be there as well. Then plans changed and our friends had to cancel. Still, I figured it would be a good change of pace in the middle of the summer. For all of us.
Sure, she’s only four years old. But she seems to be a pretty outgoing kid, loves to play with older kids, and since the starting age was 4, there would surely be a ton of other kids her age to play with. That was my justification, anyway.
I happened to be in the dressing room the same time her group was changing in to swimsuits for the pool. I scoured the collage of bikinis and one-piece Disney bathing suits and spotted her, on a bench by herself, struggling to get her clothes in to her backpack. All the other girls, slightly older than her, were lined up along the sinks chatting with each other. And when my daughter got in line behind them, she got in line alone, with no one to talk to.
Even as I peeked in on her from the parking lot a few minutes later, she appeared to be wading in the water alone. My Mom Guilt went in to overdrive.
Did I push her to go to camp too soon? Is she having a horrible time? Are the kids in her group mean? Have I not taught her how to make friends?
The next day, looking in the gym at my daughter in a sea of kids, she was sitting by herself, just watching. A wallflower. Hoping someone would ask her to play.
Watching her, the only thought that crossed my mind was this: do we have the same problem?
The hope that if we just send out the “be my friend” vibe, that someone will miraculously take us up on that offer?
As I get older, I find it harder to cultivate new friendships, let alone maintain the ones I already have. I’ve always been more of the “a few small good friends” than “a large network of pals” kind of gal. This move has been harder than any other move I’ve ever made, and I find myself a year later missing having a close friend nearby to call on.
And new experiences are harder to face fearlessly as I age. I hesitate before saying yes to a party, finding reasons to skirt outings where I don’t know anyone.
I am becoming a hermit. A lonely hermit.
So I had to sit my little girl down and explain how she can try to make friends at camp. Be nice. Share. Smile. Find a kid who isn’t playing with someone, muster up the courage to approach them and say “Hi! My name is P. Would you like to play with me?”
And if they say no, which could very well happen, then she shouldn’t take it personally. Just go find someone else. There’s a room of possibility. When all else fails, befriend a counselor. It’s what we’re paying them for.
Somehow those instructions don’t seem as easy to follow as an adult. There’s an unspoken protocol that I haven’t been able to figure out. How to make acquaintances turn in to valid friendships. How to maneuver that delicate dance of being chatty at soccer practices, but not seeming too annoying or desperate. And once you’ve exchanged numbers or email addresses, how to find the time to keep those relationships growing.
Is it appropriate to call up a girlfriend and ask for a grown-up play date? Or have your spouse call their spouse and arrange something? Do they have camps for 40 year-old stay-at-home moms?
No? They don’t?
Well, then I guess I need to head back to Plan A.
I’ve been trying. Trying to reach out to old friends and fan those flames of friendship. Dragging my ass to a dance class I’d never set foot in before. Making the effort to reach out to acquaintances that long ago mentioned grabbing coffee. Putting a dress on and heading to a party where I know no one else. Smiling.
And I’ve been practicing my introduction.
