A mom of a boy is F.’s first grade class invited F. over to play. She’s called before.
They recently moved to town from out of state and I want to accept if only we can work out a date and time. After hashing through several combinations, we settle on this afternoon.
When did 7-year-old’s get such busy social calendars?
Both boys are thrilled. The mom is thrilled. I’m thrilled to separate my boys. They’ve been fighting non-stop since 5:30 this morning when they woke up early thinking it was Christmas and haven’t gotten over the disappointment that they need to wait five more days.
“Does he have something called a ‘blade’?” she asks on the phone.
“Beyblades? Sure. Should he bring them? How about the stadium?”
“I don’t know what that is, so yes?”
I’m always nervous dropping my kids to play. While I’m told they are well behaved (clearly better than they are with me) I still worry they’ll swing from the chandelier. Never say never.
I package up six extra cupcakes I’ve baked and decorated for the boys’ evening piano recital and add my cell phone number in case she needs to reach me. I load the boys in the car and head over to drop F. off.
It wasn’t that long ago that we were the new family in town. I reached out to anyone who made eye contact. Play dates? Lunch dates? Park dates? I wanted my kids to have a circle of friends and hoped to include the moms in a circle I made for me.
When school starts back up I’m calling back to set up a play date. At Starbucks.