by Heather Plett | Aug 29, 2006 | Uncategorized
Several of my most recent posts have been about friendships. I feel very blessed to have some amazing friendships (including you, my blog friends), and some possibilities for new and interesting ones. I could give you a bunch of clichés about how friends add richness to your life, blah, blah, blah, but I’ll spare you the agony of all of that. You can stop at any Hallmark store and read them for yourself. (I’m not very good at writing sappy sentimental stuff like that, which is why I’ve never written for Hallmark. Or Blue Mountain Arts. Or Chicken Soup for the Soul.)
In this time of friendship abundance, however, I’ve been thinking back to a time when I felt like I was in a friendship desert. I was lonely – like I’d forgotten how to make new friends and was all alone in a barren, friendless desert. Oh, I still had the support of my family, and could still muster up a decent conversation with a friendly acquaintance, but I didn’t have the time, the energy, the opportunity, or even the confidence to make new and lasting friendships.
Have you ever been in that kind of desert? I suspect it’s more common than we might admit. I think there are probably lots of lonely people out there who pass through our lives looking like they’re content and connected with lots of supportive people, but who go home alone and maybe even cry themselves to sleep now and then. (In fact, a friend told me about a radio report she’d heard once that said that 50% of people surveyed said they didn’t have a close friend to confide in. Wow. That’s sad.)
The time in my life when I felt the most lonely was shortly after our second child was born. It happened for a number of reasons. We’d had 2 babies in quick succession, and besides a six month maternity leave for each of them, I continued to work full time. I was completely exhausted and overwhelmed. Many of the friends I’d had before had either moved away or drifted away because they were still childless and therefore living in a different world. I didn’t have many opportunities to bond with other moms because I was either working or trying to muster enough energy to love and care for my kids. Marcel and I were working different hours (to reduce the amount of time our children were in childcare) so I spent most evenings alone with 2 small and fully dependent children. We were going to a church that was essentially just a place to show up on Sunday mornings and didn’t offer us any real community. We’d moved into a new “neighbourhood” (and I use the term very loosely) which consisted of a short street jammed between 2 major thoroughfares, and there were no other young families on our short street (we’ve since moved). Plus I’d become a manager at work, and when you’re in management it’s tougher to make lasting friendships because people don’t feel comfortable getting too close to you. It didn’t help matters much that most of my fellow managers were men who were nice enough but were a fair bit older than me and didn’t have a whole lot in common with me.
So there you have it, a heap of reasons to be lonely. And I was wallowing in it. I remember nights I’d cry myself to sleep after the children were finally sleeping. I remember fighting tears at the playground when other mothers were there hanging out together and I was alone. I remember feeling always on the edge of the conversations in the lunch room because I was management and therefore had to be held at arms’ length. I remember the nights I could go out (when Marcel was home and able to watch the kids) but I couldn’t think of anyone to go out with. I remember wondering if I’d lost all capacity for making friendships – if perhaps motherhood had sapped that out of me and I would have to get used to this new lonely reality. I remember meeting interesting people and dreaming of building a relationship with them, but knowing I didn’t have the time or the energy to start anything.
I’m getting a lump in my throat as I type this. It makes me wish I could reach back into the past and comfort the woman I was then. I wish I could offer her some hope that it does and will get better. I wish I could send her the “ghost of Christmas future” to conjure up an image of what’s ahead and let her know that she’ll get through and she didn’t really lose the capacity for friendship. I wish blogs had been invented back then so that I could at least direct her to a virtual community where she’d get some validation and support.
Sometimes I see new mothers (or I stumble across their blogs), who look like they’re going through the same desert I did. One memory is particularly burned into my memory. When I was in the hospital six years ago, my friend and I saw a young woman leaving the hospital with her brand new baby, and she had no family or friends who’d come to the hospital to take her home. She climbed into a cab with the baby (and very little else – no one had brought her any baby gifts at the hospital), looking like a scared rabbit, completely overwhelmed with her new life and no-one there to support her. I can still get choked up when I conjure up that memory. I wonder whatever became of her.
Now that I’m at a more comfortable, relaxed period in my life, with kids who demand less of my energy, a job that I enjoy and that doesn’t overwhelm me, lots of friends and family who support me, I feel like I should start to reach out a little more to those overwhelmed mothers (or other lonely people) who don’t have any real friendships. I’m not sure what that looks like, since I still don’t have a lot of time on my hands, but I think I need to figure it out. Perhaps a mother-mentoring thing might be a good start. I remember asking a more mature mother (when I was a new mom) if she would consider mentoring me a little and at least offering me helpful advice/support when I felt lost and alone. She looked at me like I was nuts and said “by that you’re suggesting that I’ve actually figured this motherhood thing out along the way.” Now that I’ve been a mom for 10 years, I completely get what she was saying (‘cause I still don’t think I know what I’m doing), but at the same time I hate to watch people floundering alone like I was doing.
This is not a post to say I’ve reached any grand conclusions about how I can “give back” – I’m just thinking out loud. I do believe that in our consumer-driven, every-man/woman-for-him/herself culture, we often forget the value of support and friendship and therefore there are way too many lonely people among us. I also believe that we have a duty/calling to make a difference.
If you have any insight about how a person can contribute to changing this for at least one or two people, or if you have your own stories of loneliness, leave me a comment. Maybe we can start a conversation on the topic. Because as much as we often feel like we have to hide how lonely we are for fear of revealing some sign of weakness on our part, sometimes the best way to begin to get past it is to admit it and reach out.
by Heather Plett | Aug 26, 2006 | Uncategorized
An invitation to a birthday party seems to be a rite of passage in our culture these days. This morning, Maddie is off to her first. For years now, she’s watched her sisters head off to various parties and she has dreamed of the day that it would be her turn. Today it was her turn. She’s talked about it all week and was more than just a little excited. This morning, her sisters helped her get ready – one of them helped her tie the bow on her shirt, the other helped write out the card. I wish you could see her new sneakers on this picture – she’s SO proud of them. Pink faux-converse. Too cute.
Julie is itching to become a driver. She drives every chance she gets. She’s learned to drive her Pépère’s (that’s French for grandfather) lawn tractor, and sat on my lap last week as she drove our car around Marcel’s parents’ yard. Yesterday we went to Thunder Rapids and she lived out a little part of her dream by driving a go-cart like a little speed-demon.
Nothing makes me realize how muck Nikki is growing up like watching her take responsibility for her little cousin. She dotes over her every chance she gets and handles her like an old pro. She’s always been so responsible. I remember when Maddie was learning to crawl – she often kept a closer eye on her than I did. And now she’s doing the same thing for little Abigail. Last night, she got to feed her carrots.
The pieces of my children’s lives are passing before me like a fast-paced movie on the big screen. Sometimes I wish I could grab the remote control and hit re-wind so I can re-live some of the really good parts. If not re-wind, then I’d at least hold the pause button down now and then to keep them from passing into the next stage quite so quickly. The growing up and the growing away hurts sometimes.
At the same time, I get such a rush when I look at them and realize the incredible people they are growing up to be. Yesterday was one of those days as we mini-golfed and drove go-carts and bumper boats. As much as I loved their baby-hood, I’m also loving their budding independence when I can sit on the sidelines a little more and watch them grow and become.
How did I get so lucky?
by Heather Plett | Aug 25, 2006 | Uncategorized
Shortly after writing that post about my husband’s cooking, I went to pick up some printing, and ran into an old friend I haven’t seen in quite awhile. Turns out she’s trying to put together the pieces of her life after a hellish year. There can be nothing fun about being forced to move your fifty year old husband into a nursing home because of his rapid decline due to MS. And that was only after she’d struggled to care for him at home while trying to keep herself sane. After too many days of having to run home from work to help him off the floor where he had fallen, she had no other choice.
She describes herself as a married widow. Not only can her husband no longer cook her the kind of meals I’ve been treated to, he can’t even keep her company in her lonely house. He can’t go for walks with her, can’t travel, can’t curl up on the couch with his arm wrapped around her, can’t go to movies, and can’t please her the way he used to (and this is someone who used to brag about her sex life).
This friend is one of the most vivacious, fun-loving people I know. There is something incredibly unfair about the way her life turned out. Too unfair for words.
by Heather Plett | Aug 24, 2006 | Uncategorized
When you sit down to a meal of grilled chicken skewers and curried rice with roasted almonds, apricots and apples, it’s only right that you should bow your head and thank God for a husband who can cook like that!
Aren’t you jealous?
by Heather Plett | Aug 23, 2006 | Uncategorized
Thanks for lunch today. Thanks for being a bright spot in the day. Thanks for your cheerfulness and your positive outlook on the world. Thanks for being comfortable, honest, encouraging, and non-judgemental.
I didn’t know we would be friends when we first met. I didn’t even know it during those first few days after we’d landed in Africa. We were all feeling our way with a group of new people, trying to establish our relationships during those long hours on the bus. At the start, I didn’t really know who I’d bond with or if I’d bond with anyone. (I was pretty sure who it WOULDN’T be with though. Some things are just obvious.) I didn’t automatically think it would be you, since there were some on the bus with ostensibly more in common with me.
I remember the moment it happened though – the moment we passed the line between polite acquaintances and friends. We’d stopped for a pee break somewhere, and we’d all taken our turns squatting on the floor in the filthy, stinky squatty potty close to the gas station. I have no idea how it came up, but we started talking about bowel movements and how we weren’t sure HOW we could be regular on this trip when we were spending so many hours on a bus and our only options for relieving ourselves would be to squat over a dirty hole in the floor. (I think you were also with me when we were in Maasai-land, miles from even a squatty potty, and I had to bury my “feminine product” under a tree. Ah yes, those were the days.) We had a good laugh, and then we climbed onto the bus.
We sat close to the back, and after letting down our guards a bit over toilet talk, we started a real conversation. Not those polite conversations over family photos that had been the standard on the bus up until that point, but a genuine conversation about our lives, our fears and insecurities, and maybe even the impression we had of some of the other passengers on the bus (yes, we were a little catty now and then).
That was the start of a beautiful friendship. From there it only grew. We learned fairly quickly how to stake out our claim, sidle up to each other when it was time to claim luggage, and end up roommates in those places where we had to share rooms. We even suffered through a night in the same bed, pestered by the mosquitoes who could bite through the screen because we were both pressed up against our sides of it. And then there was the night when we had our own rooms, but I got sick during the night and decided I should find you just in case I passed out in the bathroom (as I’m inclined to do when I get sick) hit my head on the concrete floor, and not be found until morning. Thanks for letting me into your room in the middle of the night. No, you weren’t entirely coherent, but you were still very friendly. 🙂
We had some incredible moments, didn’t we? Who can forget the Serengeti? Or the night in the tent when the goats kept us awake? (Thank God for duck tape!) What about the visit to the AIDS orphanage? Or the sexy dancer who had his eye on you? Could you believe our beautiful room at that resort in Tanzania? Or the church service in the bar the next morning (when we skipped communion together)? What about when we bartered for souvenirs in the downtown market?
One of the things I will always remember about Africa is you. You were one of my favourite things about that trip, and there were LOTS of great things. I’m so glad we had a couple of days at the end of the trip when everyone else had gone home. It was fun, wasn’t it?
Thanks for the memories.
