now we are six

Yesterday, 9 am: the chocolate beet cupcakes were cooling (what better way to ensure some of the garden beets make it into my children's bellies?), the kale that was destined to be oiled, salted, and roasted that evening was harvested, my coffee was sitting cold on the counter, and Frances had opened all her presents.

The birthday was well under way, yet already the happy tide was turning. We had plans to participate later in a homemade science camp organized by a group of local mothers. Over the summer, each family will host at least once, planning a science activity for all the kids. Sounds fun, right? Frances had been on the fence about going for the first time on her birthday, since we only know one of the families involved, but when she heard we were going to play with bubbles she couldn't resist.

Until ten minutes before we were supposed to go. "I think I'm going to hate science camp," she told me. "We can't go." Huh? That was followed by predictions of encountering the meanest kids ever there, and comments of the "bubbles are dumb anyway" ilk. Well. I tried and failed to shake her out of it, herded the children into the car with cupcakes and sunscreen in hand, and steeled myself.

Her behavior was atrocious. As the host mother explained activities, she would sigh loudly, looking up at me accusingly and saying things like "I told you I wouldn't like this." She was trying pretty hard to be a jerk, but anyone could see the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. I was increasingly mad at her, and also sad, not to mention completely embarrassed before the other mothers, none of whom I had met before. I couldn't bring myself to make eye contact with any of them for more than a fleeting second, which was easy because so much of my attention was focused on preventing Frances from ruining the bubble fun for everyone else. She asked to go home; I refused. Her brother was having fun, and I held out hope that things might yet turn around.

When the structured part of the morning was over, the kids ran wild in the yard. Frances continued to channel a negative little troll on the swing set, interpreting every delayed turn as further confirmation of the horrific nature of science camp. But then I watched a big-hearted little girl named Elise run after her, offering a hug and a turn with the bubble machine. Frances collapsed into her skinny arms. It took my breath away. Elise melted the hardness in Frances in a way I never could have. Thank goodness for the kindness of strangers.

Then Frances found a new friend in Portia, who had also just turned six. The two of them hit it off and played beautifully for the rest of the morning. As I watched them, my own brittleness gave way. I was able to sit and chat with the other mothers. When Frances began to play nice, I relaxed and found I could too.

The rest of the day was just great. Though Frances walked the line of birthday enthusiasm, every so often losing her footing and stumbling into the land of birthday grubbiness, it was all okay. I forgave her without effort; love triumphed. The two of us were able to swim at the pool while Gabriel napped, then we all welcomed five of her favorite grown up friends over for a big celebratory dinner with more presents and ice cream. Oh, and those kale chips! (Which, I am pleased to report, she requested specifically for the occasion.)

Sitting back in my chair at dinner last night, surveying the wealth of excellent friends and good food before me, I was reminded of our first weeks in Annapolis. Frances had just turned three. Night after night, it was just us, a disoriented foursome in our impersonal, white-walled kitchen. The social situation in our new friendless town could only be described as impoverished. How it weighed upon Frances! She kept asking if could we please have some friends over for dinner tonight?  Or could we go to a friend's house instead?  It broke my heart to tell her we didn't have any friends to invite, or be invited by. Those were lonely times. When I remember them, palpable gratitude flows through my limbs. The kindness of strangers - and new and old friends - brought me through. How much has changed in three short years!