My daughter, the sassy, brilliant, clever Miss O, is a very sensitive soul. Very. Very-very. At first glance, she is the typical oldest daughter, very verbal, a leader, creative and on top of things. You would probably miss her deep sensitivity altogether if you weren't looking closely, analyzing, watching through microscopically precise eyes.
I don't actually know if microscopically precise eyes is even something that exists.
There was a birthday party to which she was not invited. And before you get your undies all in a bunch, we are not the parents who boo-hoo when our kid doesn't get invited. Because sometimes you don't, so deal.
But.
It seemed to her that every other kid her age from the small social circle was invited. It appeared that when The Group disbanded the Standard Friday Activity, all of the 6, 7, and 8 year olds got into the same two cars and went to the birthday party.
We got into our car, and Miss O burst into tears.
And if Miss O's recollection of Friday is accurate (grain of salt here, people, she's seven, sensitive and superdramatic), the birthday boy and his guests were discussing the party all. day. long. And also? Birthday Boy spent the entire day telling Miss O that she was neither invited, nor allowed to attend the party, and that everybody else was.
She held it together very well in front of everyone at The Group, but six hours of doing so takes its toll on a sensitive seven year-old. We spent the better part of Friday afternoon and evening listening to her unleash her frustration and anger and tears about the emotional beating she took at The Group's Standard Friday Activity.
Sometimes this parenting gig really sucks. Those of you who are parents know this already, and those of you who aren't? Well, you *should* know that there's an entirely bizarre phenomenon that happens when you become a parent, and it is called Part Of Your Soul Lives Inside Another Person, and When That Person Aches, You Ache Too, And It's A WAY Worse Ache Than When It's Actually You Who Aches.
And that, my friends, is a lot of aching.
I don't actually know if microscopically precise eyes is even something that exists.
There was a birthday party to which she was not invited. And before you get your undies all in a bunch, we are not the parents who boo-hoo when our kid doesn't get invited. Because sometimes you don't, so deal.
But.
It seemed to her that every other kid her age from the small social circle was invited. It appeared that when The Group disbanded the Standard Friday Activity, all of the 6, 7, and 8 year olds got into the same two cars and went to the birthday party.
We got into our car, and Miss O burst into tears.
And if Miss O's recollection of Friday is accurate (grain of salt here, people, she's seven, sensitive and superdramatic), the birthday boy and his guests were discussing the party all. day. long. And also? Birthday Boy spent the entire day telling Miss O that she was neither invited, nor allowed to attend the party, and that everybody else was.
She held it together very well in front of everyone at The Group, but six hours of doing so takes its toll on a sensitive seven year-old. We spent the better part of Friday afternoon and evening listening to her unleash her frustration and anger and tears about the emotional beating she took at The Group's Standard Friday Activity.
Sometimes this parenting gig really sucks. Those of you who are parents know this already, and those of you who aren't? Well, you *should* know that there's an entirely bizarre phenomenon that happens when you become a parent, and it is called Part Of Your Soul Lives Inside Another Person, and When That Person Aches, You Ache Too, And It's A WAY Worse Ache Than When It's Actually You Who Aches.
And that, my friends, is a lot of aching.
Part of me wants to light up the Birthday Boy's mom for inviting everybody else, but I don't even know if everybody else was invited, and really? Would that make it better for Miss O (or me) to pitch a fit? No. I think it would not. Also, it would set a really bad example, and one drama queen per situation is quite enough.
So there's that.
So there's that.
**Comments are closed. Y'all are lovely and I appreciate the spirit of the sticking up for my girl, but the Birthday Boy is my friend's kid. If you have anything to share, send me an email. thedaytontime at gmail dot com. xo
