The sidewalk is blocked by a gaily decorated table, bright table cloth, a bouquet of shimmering Mylar balloons, and chairs marked with princess stickers and ribbons. In the driveway there is bike after bike, each more pink than the last, concrete evidence of girls and a party.
I pause on the sidewalk and hear the tinkling peals of girlish laughter, of squeals and yelps from the playhouse I know is there. The playhouse I've seen my daughters in, playing with the same kids who's laughter slices through me now. I hear the stream of small talk and pleasantries,
"Iced tea?"
"Does she want a hot dog?"
"Loving your flower bed!"
"She does so well with other kids."
"Summer been good?"
My hands fall to my sides and I am aware of my shoulders slumping.
Why? Why nearly thirty years later am I reliving the feeling of being left out? Only this time it's compounded by a feeling that I have let my girls down. We were not invited to this party, whether by oversight or intended slight I do not know. Cars are parked up and down our street, each mocking me with the invitation I do not have.
A parade of neighbors, with daughters dressed in frilly, frothy party dresses, has passed our house. Bright colored tissue peeking from the large bags they carry, presents for a birthday girl. I watch the moms, dressed in their shapeless t-shirts and khaki shorts. They wear flip flops and looks of fatigue on their faces as their daughters pull eagerly at their hands, hurrying them to the fun.
Would I frown? Would I find it so common place and tedious to go to a party? I imagine I'd walk with my head held high, puffed up and proud that I'd managed to get the present and dress the girls in pretty dresses. I think the woman I am and the girl that I was, would hold hands, arriving at the party they'd been excluded from way back when. I wish I had the opportunity to know.
I walk toward the house not wanting to mar the day with my disappointment.
"Hey mama, look. Look, mama! It's a finish line." Briar points at the table on the sidewalk not twenty feet from our house, a mix of excitement and reverence in her voice.
"Can you see the finish line, mama? Do you see it, it's right there?" Her delicate index finger with its raggedy nail, chewed nearly to the quick, points to the tables, so close, and yet completely beyond my reach.
"Yes, honey. I see it." I take her hand and we walk up the stairs. "How about a little Jo Jo?"
"Oooh, yes mama, can I see the snowy dinkety?" Her wide feet, like pink paddles, scamper up the steps. She had wanted a dress, but there were none to be found at the store, so we bought a shirt meant for an older girl. The ruffled hem swished just beneath her diaper, the collar slipped down her shoulder, and she turned to me in the doorway.
"Hey mama? I love my dress. And I love snowy dinkety." Then she ran to the computer awaiting the show. I worked furiously to swallow the lump in my throat, my heart aching at how I felt I'd failed her and then this, a thank you and glee. I shook my head, leaving the sorrow at the door and smiling as I went to turn on, "Snowclown for Dinky" or "snowy dinkety" as she calls it.
Later, as the girls ate fresh melon and played with blocks, I tried to drown out the sounds from down the street. The party had spilled out onto the sidewalk, parents and children milling about. I couldn't pull myself from the window, hidden in the curtain as I accounted for each family that was there, for every one counting a useless, "And not us."
"You ok, babe?" Sean asked. He'd felt a similar defeat a few weeks past when all the guys in the neighborhood had painted a house. "I don't get it. Why didn't they ask me?" He'd wondered aloud, clearly hurt. I hadn't known what to say and had been frustrated by the futility of wishing to be included.
"Never ends well," muttered the 9 year old, misfit tomboy Amanda inside of me.
"I don't know. I mean what happened? Why aren't we there?" He had no answer, rubbing my shoulders to fill the moment.
"Did you check to see if maybe they stuck something in our mailbox?" He asked hopefully.
"No, just a postcard from the Leukemia Society thanking me for the neighborhood campaign I agreed to do." Spiraling into a funk, I imagined failing the Leukemia Society by agreeing to represent a neighborhood that doesn't seem to want me. Having the letters I sent ignored for the sender's name.
"I mean have I done something? I don't fit in at work for being home part time and I don't fit in at home for being away at work half the day." I could feel despair seeping in from all sides, threatening to overwhelm me.
"You fit in at home," he was stunned, hurt.
"No, I mean in the neighborhood. I don't know how to fit in." I felt hollow, no tears, just more hollowness.
"Honey, you've got your toe in each world, I don't think you can."
"I just, my god. If I have to be worried that at 3 and 1 I am failing my girls by getting them excluded from parties I don't think I can make it to the end of this race."
He took me in his arms and kissed my neck.
"Look at them." He was nodding toward the girls, heads bent together building something together.
I nodded, "I know."
"We can just do what we can do." I fought the tightening in my throat and the burning in my eyes, I would not let the girls see this, or feel hurt. There will be other parties and other dresses.
For now, there is us, and that isn't such a bad thing.
27 comments:
You just made me teary, my dear. Because, I know just how you feel.
And? I never understand either.
Amanda,
We are sharing the same fears. My heart skips a beat at the thought of Madeline being left out or teased when she heads to pre-school this fall. Her school is the primary school just 2 houses away. But those 50 yards are going to feel like a million. I try to imagine what it will be like to be her. Will I have enough strength to leave her there if she has a bad week? Will I let her fight her own battles if she gets picked on? Will I fit in with the other mom? I have not been able to join the "moms" groups or join many playdates because I work from home. Will I fit in with the moms or will I be an outsider, not the one who works and has a soaring career and balances it all, not the one who has put all her time into raising her family.
I feel your pain stranger friend.
This post made me want to cry. I feel for you because I to often feel exluded as a mother and worry I may let my daughter down by not running in the right circles. I am younger than most moms and don't plan on having a career outside the home, at least not for a long while. In our area most moms have successful careers and are a minimum of 6 years older than me. They have their groups and it's hard to fit.
But I think our girls will find their way. They will make friendships regardless of weather you and I bump shoulder with all the right moms. Sure, it might be harder. But they are beautiful inside and out and that will shine through as they seek out friends who will love them regardless.
You each have helped lift a heavy heart. So hard to admit feelings of failure. How incredible it is to be reminded how very not alone I am in these feelings! Thank you.
There's nothing worse than feeling somehow not good enough. But you know it's not true. Your girls are happy and beautiful and you are giving them what little girls need, a home filled with laughter and love and 2 awesome parents.
Sure, there will be bumps along the way, but the 'other' parties and times of being included will follow.
Right now your girls don't feel excluded so try not to hurt for them, tough as that is.
Those kids and Moms down the street have no idea what (and who) they are missing!
((you))
You are about the furthest thing from a failure.
You've got me all weepy now. I know just how you feel. It's so hard some times. There have been so many times Zoe and I have finished one of our classes at the Y... and I leave wondering "why didn't I get invited to the bagel shop? is it me? don't they see their kids like Zoe?" It's just so frustrating.
"Isn't such a bad thing"
Do you not know how much I wish I were there?
So, regarding levity; I'm there. And the girls are in their pink best and we're sipping margarita's and watching the Tigers kick the Yankee's asses all over the place and sitting under the fall leaves, dancing down from the air.
Oh, Amanda. This one hurt even to read. You'd be invited to any and every party we threw, if you lived closer. In fact, you are invited! Consider this a standing invitation if you're ever where we are.
xxoo
oh. i know about this too. the straddling of fences and other people's parties.
and in the end i try and reconcile i am not good at these sorts of things anyways. but ooof, it hurts.
i'll tell you - us (mommy) misfits could have a fine party ourselves.
Where have you been all my life? This was amazing -- just amazing. Check the mailbox. I can't tell you how many times.
Mike
Umm, yeah.
Me, too. Always. Never fit in, always awkward, left out of every trio or twosome. Even my best girlfriends gather together without me, forget about it, then talk about how they had so much fun without me.
I hate your neighbors.
I love you, and if you were my neighbor I'd never leave your house.
And my door would always be open to you, your family and your joy.
I'm so sorry.
I think we have a lot in common my friend, with the difference being that I could never look as smokin' hot as you do in a bikini and that you are much braver than I am to talk about fitting because it pains me too that I don’t (and rarely ever) “fit” in.
If you lived anywhere near me I would throw a party just so I could invite you and the girls, you could even bring dad to the girly party!
I remember the feeling, it sucks.
I was a misfit, too. More tomboy than girl; more alone than included. I worry about my boys being excluded - more because I'm not so good at the "real life" friendships than because of them. Your daughters are lucky to have you for their mama.
Although sad, that was soooo beautiful. I love the way you write, and those neighbors - forget about 'em. They are the ones who are on the outside looking in.
They are the ones who are truly missing out. Missing out on YOU.
Carrie
I've been feeling like shit lately, too, if it's any consolation. It must be going around. Do you think shitty feelings can go around like a flu can? I think they can.
...You know what I'd say, though: fuck them.
<3
Oh Amanda. I am just catching up so I just read this. It hurts my heart. I am so mad at your neighbors, and I have been there. I am there now, with the moms in my Sunday School class. They have so many children just Ben and Clara's age but I never seem to be able to get in the circle. I wonder what it is I'm doing wrong, and I feel bad that my kids can't be friends with all of theirs.
I'm not shy, but for some reason I have never been good at making new connections and I always wonder what I am doing to push people away.
So, I feel your pain, but still I am sorry for it. You can come to my party, and I'll come to yours.
Hugs.
Oh and I am linking this too, I hope that's okay.
In some regard, I think so many of us bloggers feel the way you've so eloquently written. We don't know where we fit, and maybe it's partially this insecurity on top of the horror of feeling unwelcome that does us in. And of course, the idea of this trickling down to our children somehow is totally heartbreaking. I think your commenters have showed the type of support that does actually exist, if only we weren't all so geographically disparate, we could support in person as well.
I'd fix you a drink and make some fresh salsa, and the gals could play. Damn geography!
Ow, my heart.
I would so invite you and your two little cherubs to my party. In fact, we're having one for Hailey on the 26th. Haven't you always wanted to come to Canada?!
I too, have a "toe in each world." And I know how you feel. I so wish we were neighbors.
I moved here earlier this year, and I am so lonely.
I made a few friends - I thought - during the spring, but didn't see them all summer!
It's hard. I'm glad you have your husband's support and that he shows it. That's important. I'm afraid it's hit or miss for me on that count.
Here from Mrs. Chicken's.
This tore me up. I had all kinds of things to say, but I can't really see thru the tears to type - all I can say is me too, me too.
I'm new to your blog, came over from Mrs. Chicken and I'm so glad I did. Your achingly honest and wonderful writing brought tears to my eyes. I've been feeling exactly the same way. You would definitely be at the top of my invite list for any and all parties I host.
I just found you through Chicken and Cheese...
I, too, work part-time. I have uttered your words many, many times, "I don't fit in there, I don't fit in here." It can be so difficult. I want to offer you hope, however. After seven years of straddling these two worlds, I have finally made peace with the place I occupy. I no longer feel defensive about my choices -- either to them or to them. It is very liberating. I cannot tell you how I got here, I just arrived one day. Meanwhile. My heart aches for you, because I so understand.
Also here via Mrs. Chicken.
And I don't think I have anything else I could possibly add. I'm tearing up too...you've just nailed it, and I can't decide if I'm happy that someone else understands what I've experienced, or heartbroken that someone else has felt this.
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