It stinks when you discover that you weren’t invited to something your friends were. Whether you’re five or 85 it isn’t a pleasant discovery, but when it happens to your kid, whew that really stinks.

One of my son’s friends came home with us after school. He left behind an invitation from another classmate in open form (I promise) on the floorboard along with graded math & science tests. The invitation was beautiful depicting a fun-filled day on a lake wave running, ski boarding and playing ball to celebrate the classmate’s birthday. All the things my little guy loves.

I thought to myself, why couldn’t this be one of those bowling parties that take place on the most beautiful day of spring -the kind my husband and I draw straws to see who has to be the taker? So I did what any mama would do, I went through my boy’s backpack in search of his invite. It needed to be cleaned out anyway, and I discovered a field trip waiver that was a hair from being past due. The backpack didn’t produce the invitation, so I ask my son if he checked his cubby and brought everything in it home. He said, “yes, Mommy.” I retorted, “Are you sure?” He then looked and me and asked, “Why Mommy? Why is your forehead all bunched up?” He went back outside to play with the rest of the kids that were shooting hoops in our driveway.

I thought to myself, dang who cares? I cared. I imagined myself sticking my tongue out at that mom the next time I saw her at school and then asked myself why does this matter? Really, Patricia it’s just a part of life and you want to help Harrison deal with the truth when he discovers he wasn’t invited. I was disappointed in myself for this response to the floorboard invitation.

I thought Maria Shriver had fixed my angst of being un-invited when she shared on 20/20 how it hurts her feelings when her girlfriends go out to lunch without her. I thought, if she also gets the occasional un-invite with all of that good heritage & hair on her side, then it must be okay for me too. So I meditated on Maria Shriver for about 10 seconds and all sorts of candy bars popped into my mind.

The next step to the invitation saga was a call to my girlfriend who said the same thing. My logical side said who cares? But when it comes to angst with me, I am like a heat seeking missile. I wanted to pull that angst out by the root and smell the truth so I asked myself again why it mattered and the bravado part of me said, “You don’t want young cub to be hurt.” My logical side wasn’t buying it, so after surfing the web, eating a Butterfinger candy bar, and calling my sister – hmmmm triple hedge – hedge to smelling my truth! So back to the question why does it matter? I got my answer at lightning speed: The belly dancer. It was the belly dancer’s fault.

I had a play date as a child with the popular girl in school. Her mother brought me home. After a knock on my door and to our surprise there was a belly dancer – the outfit, the music, the miniature clapping finger cymbals, the eyeliner, just like Cleopatra wore in that movie. As the popular girl’s mother stood in our doorway looking like she just saw Elvis, I knew that was the end of my play dates. The belly dancer was also newly windowed like my dad. He had met her on a cruise and decided to bring her home along with his luggage.

Even thought the belly dancer was interesting, nice, and scary in a good kind of way, I just didn’t appreciate her post cruise impromptu arrival in our home.

 

Another play date-gone-bad happened as I happily got off my school bus with another friend in tow. We were greeted by about 100 motorcycles, a rare site in suburbia (this was before Jay Leno made motorcycles cool). They belonged to my dad’s new girlfriend, (who was also recently widowed by the leader of the Outlaw motorcycle gang). The bikers wore boots, chaps and the emblem of their gang was prominently displayed on the backs of their jackets. I did everything I could to get them to scram before girl number two’s mother arrived to be greeted by Rock who stood 6’8 and had long hair and the glowing gang emblem on the back of his jacket. Smoke billowed through our home. Loud rock music thumped and they occupied our home until 5:00 a.m. the next morning.

The third thing happened right about the same time. As I sat and daydreamed about a Golden Retriever greeting these Alpha Moms at our front door instead of belly dancers and motorcycle gang members, I heard about the sleepover Mrs. Hamrick had. Of course it all sounded amazing. She was the cool hip, beautiful young teacher that all the girls, as well as boys, liked. We all wanted to be Mrs. Hamrick when we grew up and all the boys hoped to marry her. Mrs. Hamrick hosted four girls in her home that weekend. They were girls that had regular bedtimes, Keds tennis shoes, good grades and a fully dressed Polo-clad mother greeting guests at the door.

As I listened to the girls with fresh faces, full tummies, and clothes that matched, laugh about their weekend with Mrs. Hamrick, I cried. I cried about missing my mama that a premature death took away from me. I cried for my normal intact home with bedtimes, warm dinners, and clothes that fit, and the visitors in my home being people I felt safe and comfortable around. I missed the folks from the PTA, church socials, and friends that I had grown accustomed to knowing and loving. But a magical thing happened as I got to know and love these not-so-typical people that graced my home. I learned about charity from the runs and rides that the motorcycle gangs would hold to raise money for children’s benefits. I learned they were the best tippers always tipping over the recommended amount. I learned that belly dancers are people under all that make-up and taffeta and eye gyration. They all had a story, a past, a heart, and hopes and they wanted to belong just like the rest of us. Their different ways broadened my closed mind and confused heart and let the truth and sunshine of the beautiful differences in all of us have its place.

A few years ago I had the good luck to hang with a comedian and their crew before a sold out/night performance. We ate, laughed and had a great day. The comedian’s NY agent was also with us the entire day. My husband and I walked him out at the end of the night and he turned to me and said, “Patricia you can hang with Kings and Paupers. That is a rare skill.” Then I thought who needs a Golden Retriever anyhow?