My 9-year-old daughter often gets invited to playdates. The usual: a mom messages me. We agree on a place and time. The kids meet, run around, spend their hours. I chat with the parent until one of us needs to go. Usually it is me.
There's an unspoken rule of two hours. At the two-hour mark, someone says they need to go. Or we say goodbye at the same time. It works for me. My daughter gets off the screen. Gets to run, use her imagination. And going out, for me, already takes something. Being an immigrant means that. Every new place, every new person, costs a bit before you even arrive. There are times I have to prepare myself mentally especially if I have to meet new people.
That Saturday was the usual playdate. Willows Beach park. First time with this classmate.
This Saturday was different. I brought my laptop. Just in case. Something to do if the talk ran dry.
The laptop never left the bag.
We talked. Kids first, comparing notes. Then, somehow, our own lives came up. How hard it is to meet people our age now. The kind of friends you used to make by accident — at work, at school — don't happen anymore. How much of the day gets eaten by juggling everything, and how little is left for anyone new. I lost track of time. Almost three hours. Nonstop.
Some of it surprised me. I found myself sharing things I wouldn't normally share on a first meeting. Not just stories about my daughter. Stories about me. When my husband showed up, I didn't use him as my exit, the way I usually do. We just kept talking.
I'm wary of new people these days. So this one hits differently. Not because we're from the same place. Not because we're raising kids the same age. It was the stories. Not where I came from.
The 3 hours of non-stop sharing? There never was a picture. Nothing to prove that it happened.
But it did
Playdates used to be something I did for her, and something I sometimes dread.
This one, I did for me too. And I was glad we did it.
