The Playdate That Wasn’t
April 2, 2009
Resilience isn’t usually at the top of the list when naming admirable qualities in a child. As mothers, we strive to teach qualities like patience, hard work, and charity in an effort to mold good people. We hope our children are smart, charming and even beautiful so they will be successful people. But we rarely, like the fairies bestowing their gifts on the baby Princess Aurora, touch our wands to our tiny charges and wish them resilience.
I’ve decided this is a highly underrated quality and maybe even the secret to being a truly happy grownup. Perhaps it’s because I live in a city where people’s lives are on display on sidewalks and subways, but I’ve recently been struck by the world weariness we bear and how much happier we would all be if we could let things just roll off our backs. Big problems weigh on all of us, but the day to day inconveniences and disappointments can be just as atrophying to our spirits. It seems to me that those who are truly happy have a way of deflecting those inconveniences and disappointments against a shield of emotional resilience; if they get knocked down, they get right back up again.
Which brings me to Auden. As my second daughter, Auden has forever been in the shadow of her older, more demanding sister. Auden has spent her three years tagging along: to Esme’s school, to Esme’s violin lessons, to the library to get books for Esme to read. And so when Auden expressed interest for the first time in having a certain little girl over to our house for a playdate, I did what I could to respect the Patient One’s wishes.
The little girl’s mother was contacted, a time was established when she would be dropped off at our house. For days I delighted in watching Auden planning this special event. “No Esme,” she repeated, half a statement of glee and half a question to make sure I would answer, “That’s right, no Esme.”
Auden decided to host a tea party for her guest. I made cookies the day before the greatly anticipated playdate and Auden specifically asked me to save four cookies. It took the rest of the family everything we had not to devour those four cookies along with the rest. “Two for me and two for my friend,” she calculated. And so the four cookies were put away. Even Esme was in on it at this point: “I would ask for those cookies in my lunchbox tomorrow,” she sagely informed me, “but I know that Auden’s saving them for her tea party.”
The designated time approached. I helped Auden lay out a blanket on the living room floor and get down the tin tea set with which she and her sister often pretend to entertain their dolls. I filled up the tiny tea pot with orange juice and we laid out the four cookies on the set’s serving platter. We were prepared, but the friend did not come.
We sat on the blanket together as she poured orange juice for me and I sipped it from the tiny cup. “Would you like some?” I intoned in a fake British accent, trying to divert her from the fact that I was a poor substitute for her absent friend. “No. When my friend comes.”
I managed to nibbled on one of the cookies while the minutes ticked away, but Auden remained resolute. “When my friend comes.” Half hour passed the designated time, she had collected a doll or two to join us on the blanket, but didn’t want too many other guests crowding the blanket for when her real friend came. I called the friend’s mom but got no answer on her cell phone. Auden continued straightening the tea cups and pouring me more orange juice while I fought back every urge to cry and be angry. My sweet, guileless child had wanted one thing, and at this point I was powerless to make it happen.
An hour and a half later, I had had my fill of orange juice and managed to nibble down the entire cookie. Auden had not moved from the blanket. She had not taken a sip of orange juice nor eaten a cookie. Finally the phone rang. The friend’s mom had been up all night with the flu and had simply forgotten about the playdate. By this point it was time to pick up Esme at school so the playdate would have to be rescheduled for another day. Alone in my room, I paused to think how I could best break the news to Auden. The child’s sheer tenacity had floored me, and I felt uncertain about how she was going to respond next. Would she cry and have a tantrum, characteristic of her older sister? Would she go into a depressed funk? I felt I was in unchartered waters.
“Sweetie, your friend’s mommy is sick and isn’t able to bring her over for the tea party today.” I waited while she just looked at me. Were the tears coming? Was the disappointed rant about to erupt? Was she going to forever remember that her mother couldn’t even give her the one thing she wanted?
“Her mommy’s sick?” she repeated. No tears. No rant. The world did not end. “Will she come another time?” As I nodded, Auden slowly looked down at the three remaining cookies, picked one up, and silently ate the whole thing. That kid is going to handle life just fine.
