My daughter is a sweet kid – and I say this as someone who has daily doses of her sour side. She waves and smiles at strangers. She wants to be everyone's friend. But other children don't always feel the same.
She sometimes has difficulty picking up on social cues, like when someone isn’t answering her exuberant questions or is actively running away because they don’t want to play with her. Her fixation on her special interests can be overwhelming and her stimming confusing to other children.
Friendships have always been challenging for me as well. As a child, I struggled with social anxiety. I always managed to say the wrong things at the most awkward times. Although I didn’t yet know why, I understood that I was different from my peers. I was a middle schooler who still wanted to play with her American Girl dolls, then a high schooler who read Jane Austen and wrote historical fiction instead of playing sports or going to parties. I hid my interests and masked heavily because I wanted to belong – or at least look like I belonged.
But my efforts failed miserably. I couldn’t fake being interested in the pop culture my peers cared about. I was bullied for the clothes I wore, for being uncoordinated, and for being socially withdrawn. I would find out later that I had not been invited to parties, even by people I thought were my friends.
Although the not-belonging still stings, I’ve learned as an adult to accept myself as I am. I’m done pretending to be someone else. But to help my daughter be included and form relationships with other children, I frequently find myself having to fake it again, engaging in painful small talk with other parents and going to play dates I definitely don’t want to go to.
In the past I tried to micromanage my daughter's friendships, trying to unsuccessfully coordinate playdates and meetups. I took her to meet-ups at the playground, the zoo, and a local children’s museum. Most of the time, she was running around, playing by herself, and not caring that her “friends” were there too. I tried to make friends with the other moms but felt awkward. They seemed like the adult versions of the girls who’d bullied me in middle school. They wore makeup, had bounce-back after-baby bodies, and talked about their bougie swim clubs and the Real Housewives of whatever city – conversations I could contribute nothing to.
They got together for margs after the kids were in bed. I had no desire to go to a noisy, sticky bar and felt guilty each time I didn’t respond “yes” to one of their invites. I should be making more of an effort, right? But the truth was, cuddled snug in bed with a psychological thriller, I was content exactly where I wanted to be, doing my own thing – just like my daughter.
At her old school, a mom started a text chain for her class, which I was excluded from until a school administrator insisted everyone be included. I tried to brush it off as unintentional since I wasn’t the only one. Then I saw pictures on Facebook of a party we weren’t invited to. Another time, I ran into an entire group of them at the children’s museum, congregating together for a group play date. Are you freaking kidding me?
I felt that old sting of rejection, of finding out that everyone had been invited but me, and I was embarrassed. But my daughter wasn’t. She just said hello when she saw her old classmates and returned to climbing and sliding.
The truth is, I can’t teach my daughter how to make friends. I can only teach her that there are people who will value her uniqueness, creativity, and passion. That the things that may be turn-offs for some people – her contagious enthusiasm and hyperfocus – will also attract the right people to her. That masking for other people’s comfort only leads to exhaustion and unhappiness.
I’ll continue to model how she can advocate for herself in social situations. And yes, I’m going to buy her another penguin keychain for her backpack, penguin-hater Lucas be damned.
When she comes home from school several days later, she hands me a drawing.
“Mommy, look what Derek and Mateo drew for me,” she says, excitedly shoving the paper into my hands. “It’s Super Penguin!”
“Wow, that’s really cool,” I say, moved nearly to tears by the sweet gesture.
“They saw that I was sad because Lucas said penguins were dumb.”
I stare at Super Penguin, his giant fangs bared to take on evil. Somehow, this silly penguin proves that I’m right – there are kids who get her.
“You know sweetie, if Lucas is being mean to you, maybe you should play with someone else.”
Her forehead wrinkles into a scowl. “But Moooomm, I want to play with him. He's my friend.”
There are some things she’ll have to learn for herself, like when it is time to stop pursuing a friendship.
But I’m still learning those lessons too.
In fact, I just deleted that old text chain today.
