Negotiations

I remember when my daughter was young. She had a friend who lived up the little hill past the stone wall. Laura and my daughter were as thick as thieves. (and just how thick is that, I ask?) The two of them were as opposite as any two could be. J's dark ponytail and chocolate-brown eyes stood out bold against Laura's white-blond curls and blue eyes. J was quick with her words and quicker with her wit. Laura was faster than a bunny rabbit when she dashed across the lawn. J wrote poetry and played a guitar. Laura jumped higher than anyone on the trampoline.

Still they were best friends. They ran themselves ragged as they climbed the cherry tree. Celebrated un-birthdays. Built forts. Rode bikes. Did the things that kids do. They picked blueberries and tried to sell them to the neighbors. They mixed lemonade and sold it one warm cup at a time to anyone who happened by. There were times in my kitchen they made cookies that only a mother could eat. They were inseparable except...

When they played, J always was in charge until Laura wanted to go home. Laura was not shy about playing the "I am going home" card to her advantage. With the utterance of those four words, Laura tipped the power in her direction every time. With Laura's deliberate steps toward the door, J began to offer anything to make her stay. I remember watching J follow Laura out the door and up the road negotiating all the way: "I will give you one Barbie...okay, if you turn around now, I will give you two Barbies."

I stopped her. I had to. It was her lesson, her relationship, but I couldn't bear to see her bend over so far that she lost herself. Her dignity. It was too raw. Too real. I might have been a good mother that day when I held her back. Or I might not have been, but I wouldn't let her give herself away all the way back to Laura's house.

I guess the human need to hang onto that which we deem valuable plants its roots in the playground of our youth. The friendships. The approvals. The confirmations. The affirmations. And the fear of losing them all. We still reach for those in our own way even if we are adults. Yet the neediness is as transparent and painful as the pleading child offering her toys to keep the friend who is walking away.