Friends in Far Places

Sometimes I feel a little sorry for myself, dwelling on the East Coast with so many whom I adore on the West Coast. 

I have a good friend who is chronically, severely, devastatingly ill (with young children!), and I can’t help her with childcare or house cleaning or errands or nighttime watches to prevent falls or emergencies. Most of my West Coast peeps have never even met Lorelei. I miss hanging out and laughing with Nancy, who is one of those friends with whom you can easily pick up right where you left off. I miss Lauren, who I can talk with for HOURS and who is always game for anything. I miss Meghan and her one-liners—and I’ve never even met her long-hoped-for daughter! (But I still love her.) I missed her baby shower. I miss Jewels, who knows the ins and outs of my history better than anyone except maybe Mums. We’ve been friends since 4^th grade!

And, you know, the family is over there. But friends are different. As Mums says (repeatedly—and I do mean REPEATEDLY): You can pick your friends, but you can’t pick your relatives. Friendships are, ironically, more natural BECAUSE they stem from so much choice.

Anyhoo, it was one of those days I was just MISSING those closest friends who happen to live too freaking far away, and Chris brought the mail in. In it was a postcard addressed to Charlotte of two Degas ballerinas that are at the Norton Simon Museum in Pasadena, California. I gave it to Charlotte, who delighted in seeing her own name and address, and together we read Fauntie [fake aunt] Lauren’s message while Lorelei pointed at the image and kept yelling, “That's ballet, Mommy! Ballet!” and launching an interpretive dance with her snack container.

Included with Fauntie Lauren's note: "The first time I went to the Norton Simon Museum was with your mom to see all of the ballerina art." Oh, to connect past and present like that, with a piece of art on a postcard that, as Lauren told me later, after I gushed, "I saw that postcard and totally thought of your two girls." 

Suddenly sentimental, I realized (warning, cliché coming!) how lucky I really was, to have friends who genuinely LOVE my daughters, rejoicing in their births, sending them goofy messages, spoiling them with gifts, worrying about them when they’re sick, asking about them all the time, and so on. I mean, I’ve been friends with these people for 15 years in some cases, and more than 2 decades in other cases. Surely a little distance aint no big thing, in the end.

But damn. What I wouldn’t give for a night out with them.

And . . . . on that note, here’s what we’re reading this week:

On Charlotte’s nightstand: We finished the lovely Courage of Sarah Noble. We made our way through Louise, The Adventures of a Chicken, which is fully illustrated picture book with chapters! I think that’s part of why Charlotte likes it so much—best of both worlds: drawn out story, full illustrations. To boot, Kate DiCamillo’s books are so cleverly endearing. We haven’t hit a dud yet. And as if to underscore that point, entirely by coincidence, the newly released DiCamillo's Leroy Ninker Saddles Up JUST became available through the library, though I've had it on my queue list since the month it was released. Anyway, I happily picked it up and we'll start that one tomorrow.

On Lorelei’s nightstand: Oh, a STACK of books! She’s not being a typical toddler this week, obsessing about a particular book, but rather bouncing among all of them on her bookshelf, no repeats. And why not?

Mommy’s nightstand: Me, I finally finished Vanessa and Her Sister, which was so good at getting inside Virginia Woolf’s sister’s character and also capturing the essence of the fledgling Bohemians. I also finished Rules of Civility, which I LOVED. It was so smartly written and such a unique take on a coming of age novel (you can come of age in your twenties, right?). And 1930s Manhattan . . . what’s not to love?

What I’m actually reading, now that those two books are finished, is Ed King by David Guterson, a twist on Oedipus Rex. I’ve only just started, but it seems promising.