A Hope-less Situation

The girls have a new friend on our street. Her name is Hope and she is Kyra's age, though not in Kyra's class. She's not actually new to our street. Her family has probably lived here longer than we have, but, like us, has succumbed to the secluded nature of our neighborhood. Nobody really knows each other beyond a polite wave and possibly a smile, so parents are nervous about allowing their kids to roam. I know it's true of us.

Ever since Kyra learned to ride her bike, the first thing the girls want to do when they get home from school is ride up and down the street. And I'm more than happy to let them do it. It's so much better than fighting against them plopping down in front of the boob tube and watching an hour of cartoons. But I also fight that overprotective streak. Do I stay outside and WATCH them ride or do I go inside and get some things done. Because Kyra is so new to bike riding (or so I've reasoned), I've chosen to stay outside with them, you know, just in case she falls or to stay on the lookout for cars, that type of thing. I grab my book and a camping chair and set it up on the shaded front walkway where I can keep an eye on the girls and gleefully wave at my cold and distant neighbors as they drive by.
Ever since the girls discovered that Hope lived six houses down from us, the second thing they want to do upon their return home is to see if Hope can come outside to play. It didn't take me long to discover a pattern in this ritual. It went something like this:

"Dad, can we see if Hope can come out to play?"

"Sure."

"Yeay!"

Two minutes later, two dejected girls ascend the driveway on their bikes.

"Her mom said she has homework/chores/insert other excuse here to do."

Every day was the same, and though I knew the excuse was coming, I'd STILL let them go ring Hope's doorbell, knowing full well that Hope would never see the light of day, poor thing.

Imagine my surprise when the girls brought Hope over to our house to play on Friday afternoon. She does exist, I thought, and was relieved to discover Hope to be a sweet and polite little girl. Finally the girls have a normal neighborhood kid their age that they can play with! They had a great time together with no tiffs or hurt feelings, and they spent a lot of time together over the weekend.

Perhaps too much time. Yesterday, the after school routine played out as it had over the past couple of weeks with the girls jumping on their bikes and heading over to Hope's house. I later walked into the kitchen to find a heartbroken Kyra sitting with Diane at the kitchen table. "Tell Daddy what happened," Diane prompted, shooting me a look.

"I rang Hope's doorbell and her Mom answered the door and when I asked if Hope could come out to play she said 'No' and slammed the door in my FACE."

Diane shot me another look. Wow. Now whether or not she "slammed" the door is subject to debate. Kyra is a sensitive soul and could very well be reading into things. However, I couldn't help but notice that Hope's Mom had given up on giving excuses for why Hope couldn't play, and it seems that the girls have worn out their welcome. So now we need to figure out what to do. At 2:00 pm today, the girls will return from school and will want to go down to Hope's house. Do I let them? Or do I give them a few days off?

Things were so much easier when I just let them watch TV.

Has It Really Been That Long?

My best friend from high school called last week to inform me that our twenty year reunion had been scheduled for the end of September. Twenty years. Ho-ly cow. I know I'm not the first person in the history of humanity to ask the question, "Where did the time go?" but it feels unique to me. I can't be twenty years older. My body may feel the effects of nearly 40 years on earth, but in my mind I'm still a spry 25.

I haven't attended any of my previous reunions for various reasons. Either the timing was bad, I had a conflict in scheduling, or was simply disinterested. But there's something different about the twenty year reunion, and I've experienced a change in attitude. I recently reconnected with my best friend from high school after over ten years, and we've kept in good contact since then. Now I'm genuinely interested in returning home and catching up with several of my classmates. Perhaps that's the difference between being 25 and nearly 40. The 25 year-old is in process of establishing himself in life and is inwardly focused, while the 40 year-old has gained a little more perspective and is more able to see the big picture, focusing on things that are truly important like friends and family. At least I hope this is the case.

I don't think I'm going to be able to attend my 20 year reunion, and for the first time in my high school reunion history, I'm bummed. We already have vacation planned the week before, and I'm not sure that I can swing the tight turnaround. I'm looking into the options, but it's not looking good. It sounds like things fell through the cracks in the organization of the 20 year reunion, but should be more in line for the 25 year, so perhaps we'll shoot for that.

Making Friends

When I was growing up, I had no fewer than thirty kids in my neighborhood that I could play with. I would come home from school, throw my bag down and be out the door to see what everyone was up to, that is unless I was in the mood for Gilligan's Island. We did everything: bike riding, baseball, basketball, football, home run derby, tag, war (in the woods), trading baseball cards, and, when the sun went down, ghost in the graveyard. We knew our neighbors and our neighbors knew us, and everyone seemed to look out for each other. We had the run of the neighborhood.

My, how times have changed. We've lived in our home for almost three years now and we barely know any of our neighbors. It seems that everyone is content to keep to themselves. I rarely see any kids out playing as most of the kids on our street are older, junior highers or high schoolers.

One afternoon last week after school, the girls wanted to ride their scooters out on the sidewalk. I complied, as I had a little yard work that needed to be done. I like to be out there with them since I don't really know our neighbors that aren't immediately surrounding our home. As they rode their scooters, they encountered several other kids walking home from school. They were all older, but every time one of the girls saw one, they'd scream, "KID!" and peel out on their scooters to go meet them. It was like watching lions in a feeding frenzy on a fresh kill.

"What's your name?"
"How old are you?"
"Where do you go to school?"
"ME TOO!"
"What grade are you in?"
"Where do you live?"
"Do you have a scooter?"
"Do you have a dog?"
"Do you want to play?"

In almost every instance (this happened three or four times), the accosted child was merely passing through our street to get to their home on another street. Witnessing this made me realize for the first time just how different my childhood was from my girls'. It made me sad.

Finally, a little while later, the girls noticed a little boy out riding his scooter. POW! They were off like a shot to administer the inquisition:

His name is Shawn.
He is six years old.
He goes to the same school as them...duh.
He's in first grade.
He lives five houses down from us on the opposite side of the street.
He has a scooter (they didn't have to ask that question...he was standing on it).
He doesn't have a dog.
And, most importantly, he DID want to play.

Phew! They spent most of the rest of the afternoon riding their scooters until Shawn's mom called him inside. She probably feels the same way I do: she has no idea who I am and is not exactly sure if she wants her son down at my house. I don't take it personally. I was just glad the girls were able to make a friend on our street.

We've seen quite a bit of Shawn this past week. He's a rambunctious little guy, but he's nice and the girls like playing with him. He did tell us, however, that his dad is in the military and that his family is moving in December. So in a couple of months, the girls will be back out on the street looking for new neighborhood friends.

This time I'll beat the streets with them because I want them to enjoy the same kind of childhood that I remember.

Old Friends

Last night I talked to an old friend, my best friend from high school, for the first time in about 13 years. After I hung up, I thought about what had kept us out of touch for so long. It's not like we had a fight or a falling out. I think that life just got too busy, coupled with the fact that I do a really lousy job of keeping in touch with friends from the past.

It seems that I get too wrapped up in the present, in the now, to take the time to reach out and keep the ones who have mattered most to me in the past involved in my present. Truth is, I haven't really kept in touch with anyone from my past, outside of an irregular Christmas card that we manage to send out every two years. That's pretty sad.

They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions, and that may well be true. Lord knows that I have enough of them. I often entertain thoughts of "I should e-mail this person", but I seldom ever do (By the way, it's always "e-mail", never "call"...that would be far too scary. Last night, my friend called me. Good for him!). I need to carry through on those thoughts more often.

Oddly enough, my friend and I reconnected through MySpace, of all things. I joined "MyWaste", as I call it a few months ago at the badgering of a few of my younger colleagues at work. "I'm too old for this" I kept thinking, but I joined anyway. I did, however, set my profile to private in a vain attempt to preserve any last shred of dignity. He saw that I had an account, created an account of his own and contacted me. The rest is history. So I guess MySpace isn't that much of a waste after all...at least not in this case.