A few weeks ago, I stopped getting texts from my friends.
Not all of them; just two in particular – two of my closest friends in my town, the two friends I made when I first moved here. We started hanging out because we all have sons the same age, and then we kept hanging out because we liked each other so much. And now we just hang out, because we’re a part of each other’s lives and that’s that.
One of the things I was really worried about when we left the city was making friends. I wrote about this a lot: I had this vision of spending playdates making stilted conversation with “friends” who were really just people I hung out with because it was convenient, not because either of us actually wanted to. And then I met my friends – those two women I met when I first moved, and then another and another and another – and they were smart and thoughtful and funny and compassionate and made me feel like I could talk to them about anything at all, and so I did.
And then I stopped getting texts.
I expected it, you know. I remember years ago, when one of my best friends told me she was moving across the country, feeling so hurt. I knew that the reasons her family was moving had to do with it being the best choice for them and had absolutely nothing to do with us…but even so, there was a small, little-kid part of me that said if our friendship meant enough to you, wouldn’t you want to stay? During those last few months that we both lived in New York I remember wondering if she’d still want to hang out, or if she’d already be mentally checked out, spending her time cultivating those friendships that would be a part of her new life, not her old one. I was jealous every time she talked about these new friends: my replacements.
And now we’re the ones saying goodbye. And there are so many people here on the East Coast who I want to stay close to, who it breaks my heart to move away from. We’ll be further away, but I don’t want them to be in our lives any less. I don’t want to say goodbye to them at all; not now, not ever.
A couple of weeks after the texts stopped, I ended up seeing my friends in person at a playdate, and I wasn’t going to say anything – I didn’t want to make anyone feel awkward – but then one of them said, “Hey…are you okay? Anything going on lately? You haven’t been responding to texts.” And then the other said “You haven’t been responding to mine either.” So as it turns out, an iPhone goblin had gotten into our group message, and had been eating all the texts we’d sent to each other for several weeks. Not only had they not checked out on me; they’d thought I had been the one checking out on them.
And then, later on at that playdate, one of them made a joke about their kids dating when they got older and didn’t include Indy and Goldie in the joke. And I felt a pang – the texts may have been a mix-up, but the reality is that their lives are moving on without us, we’re not part of their picture of the future anymore, wait, wait, keep us around. But then I realized, you know:
We’re not.
Our kids probably won’t grow up best friends, and probably won’t date when they’re older.
We’re not a going to be a part of that everyday picture; that’s the decision that we made. But that doesn’t mean that we can’t be a part of their life. That’s a decision we can make, too.
Making friends as an adult – and especially as a parent – can feel so hard it verges on the impossible sometimes. And when you find those friends – because god, are they ever rare – you hold onto them hard, no matter where you go and what you do. It’s a little more work; of course it is. But it’s worth it.
The good news: what I learned from that friend of mine who moved across the country is that distance is just so many time zones. In the years since she moved we talk weekly (at a minimum), see each other several times a year, and still email back and forth like we’re sitting on the couch next to each other. Maybe we’re not pushing swings side by side on a Tuesday afternoon…but when it matters? Even when we’re miles and miles away: we’re still there.
