I used to shrug and say it with some inexplicable sense of pride: "I don't really have female friends." As if something about women made them inherently difficult to get along with, as if the catty, gossipy stereotypes are always true. As if nothing good or useful could come from friendship with women. As with so many things I've said without thinking, loudly and too often, I was wrong.
From the first day of my freshman year of college, things began to change. I made a lot of girlfriends, but three in particular who, 15 years later, still make up most of my innermost circle. Making friends has never been as easy as it was then, when we were all the same age, all facing similar issues and living down the hall from each other.
From the first day of my freshman year of college, things began to change. I made a lot of girlfriends, but three in particular who, 15 years later, still make up most of my innermost circle. Making friends has never been as easy as it was then, when we were all the same age, all facing similar issues and living down the hall from each other.
When I became a stay-at-home mom, a little more than two years ago, I was lost. Granted, we also had just moved 700 miles away to a place we'd never been. I very reluctantly joined Mothers of Preschoolers (MOPS) and another mom's club in a desperate attempt to meet people, despite being totally sure they would compel me to talk about potty training or use a glue gun or make a scrapbook page against my will.
Let me just say, I am capable of socializing and even enjoying it, but I am an introvert. I screen calls from family and friends sometimes for reasons I don't even know. I struggle mightily with small talk. I talk when I'm nervous, instead of listening; I interrupt without meaning to, I replay interactions in my head once I leave-- I fight all of it.
Let me just say, I am capable of socializing and even enjoying it, but I am an introvert. I screen calls from family and friends sometimes for reasons I don't even know. I struggle mightily with small talk. I talk when I'm nervous, instead of listening; I interrupt without meaning to, I replay interactions in my head once I leave-- I fight all of it.
So, new to Tennessee, I signed up for play dates and wrung my hands before getting out of my car at perfect stranger's houses. I awkwardly extended my hand at parks, farms, splash pads, pools, museums, play places-- you name it. My two little girls and I explored our little town and Nashville with near strangers. Then, when I suffered a miscarriage, women I'd only spent a few hours with brought me dinners for a week. They watched my children and called to check in and listened and delivered chocolate cake. When we moved to Virginia Beach last year, the first thing I did was find a MOPS group (even though they did sometimes compel me to craft things), and when my son was born in January, our family was provided meals for the better part of two weeks, in some cases, by women I had never properly met.
Now we're getting settled. We're in a community group at the church we've plugged into, I'm in a new MOPS group right in my neighborhood, and we're finally getting to know our neighbors. But I had been reluctant to invite anyone in. There are always excuses. Up until the last two weeks, the baby and I hadn't been sleeping. My house isn't renovated. It's not really set up or organized. It's not often as clean as I'd like. I suck at starting conversations. My laundry is piled up. There are always other things I could be doing.
But then I remembered my friends in Tennessee.
Now we're getting settled. We're in a community group at the church we've plugged into, I'm in a new MOPS group right in my neighborhood, and we're finally getting to know our neighbors. But I had been reluctant to invite anyone in. There are always excuses. Up until the last two weeks, the baby and I hadn't been sleeping. My house isn't renovated. It's not really set up or organized. It's not often as clean as I'd like. I suck at starting conversations. My laundry is piled up. There are always other things I could be doing.
But then I remembered my friends in Tennessee.
The women in Tennessee threw their arms and front doors open wide. Even when their playrooms were a mess or they didn't know the woman on the other side of the door, even when they'd had a rough night, even when they hadn't had time to clean or bake anything, or sweep the floor, even when they made pizza but didn't have anything to cut it with, even when the diverse women around the room raised their voices when opinions differed.The women in Tennessee are a tribe; they are the proverbial village it takes to raise a child. They are the type of people who show up in the middle of the night, in a crisis, whenever you need them. They love loudly. They are generous with their space and time and attention. They make comparison and competition irrelevant. They saw me kicking pebbles on the playground on the outskirts of conversations and invited me in. They knew I wasn't long for their world but asked me to join it anyway.
So here I am now, awkwardly standing at the bus stop and going for coffee and making meals and volunteering at the school and having conversations in line at preschool pick up until, eventually, it's not awkward anymore and we are friends. And I scheduled a MOPS play date. I invited the whole group, most of whom I didn't know yet (yep, me, the introvert). I baked muffins and brewed coffee and set out crafts and did not take a shower because I ran out of time and I waited with my four-year-old for whoever could make it to come.
Monday I got to welcome women and their children in, some of whom I had met, others I had not. I got to make snacks and fun for their children. I got to provide space and an opportunity for a couple hours of "me too." I got to do all the things the women in Tennessee had done for me-- whether they realized it or not-- and I'm not sure I would have known how if they hadn't shown me.
Now when I hear women say they can't get along with other women, I feel bad for them. To me, it means they haven't experienced the fierce, loyal, openhearted sisterhood that is possible between women. When I feel myself retreating in, hiding behind my door, thinking of reasons why I can't open my heart or my home, or why I can't bear another awkward conversation, I think of the tribe. I think of the group of women who always had room for one more. The women who thought they were just pouring a cup of coffee or just clearing a space on their couch or their calendar, the women who had no idea the difference they were making.
I want to be like them. I'm keeping my door open.
Monday I got to welcome women and their children in, some of whom I had met, others I had not. I got to make snacks and fun for their children. I got to provide space and an opportunity for a couple hours of "me too." I got to do all the things the women in Tennessee had done for me-- whether they realized it or not-- and I'm not sure I would have known how if they hadn't shown me.
Now when I hear women say they can't get along with other women, I feel bad for them. To me, it means they haven't experienced the fierce, loyal, openhearted sisterhood that is possible between women. When I feel myself retreating in, hiding behind my door, thinking of reasons why I can't open my heart or my home, or why I can't bear another awkward conversation, I think of the tribe. I think of the group of women who always had room for one more. The women who thought they were just pouring a cup of coffee or just clearing a space on their couch or their calendar, the women who had no idea the difference they were making.
I want to be like them. I'm keeping my door open.
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