...only the lonely...

At 12 years old, my son continues to be the light of my life.  He's a straight A student....a curious and avid scholar. He's intensely creative…a budding musician, an artist in the raw, an author in the making.  He's braver than anyone I've ever met.   He's loyal and generous, sympathetic and empathetic.  He's a caregiver and a defender.  He's a listener, who asks insightful questions.  He's a motivator, who insists that you can do it and he will help. 

In short, he's everything that makes a person a good friend.  

But he's not.

Our home is different.  It doesn't fill up with rowdy activity.  It doesn't host sleepovers.  It's walls have never been stretched by a play date with kids from school.  

Our phone is different.  It's not full of numbers designated so-and-so's mom.  It doesn't ring with offers of play dates.  It's text messages are never confirming birthday party invitations, or plans to meet up at a school event.

Our family dynamic is different. I don't get breaks. Or night's off.  I don't have the luxury of putting things off or saying "maybe later". Because for my son, I have to be so much more.  

I'm parent...singular. Mother and father and aunt and uncle all wrapped up into one. 

I'm teacher.

I'm therapist.

I'm a thousand different roles...

I'm friend. 

It's on me to fill in the gaps.

I will go outside and get in the snowball fight with him.  I will play hide'n'seek and tag.  I will be the decepticon to his autobot.  I will dig holes in the dirt alongside him, and whittle away at twigs with the sharp rock beside him.  I will play the same board game over and over and over again.  I will construct with Legos and destruct on Minecraft. I will go jump in puddles on a rainy day and take soap bubbles to the face on a windy day.  I will go on treasure hunts. I will bury a box of our secret treasures.  I will learn to write in invisible ink and learn to decode messages.  I will pretend that we are on Cybertron, or that we are wolves.  I'll whisper "Don't tell Mom!" and collapse in a fit of giggles.  I'll follow his lead and mix together the most unappetizing foods and play "I double dog dare you" to eat it.

I'll be his friend.

Because everybody needs a friend. Because everybody deserves a friend. Because he's the best friend I could ever imagine.

At 12 years old, my son is an awesome friend.  An awesome, unrealized friend.  

I'm a class mom this year, so I've had ample opportunity to be on school grounds and in the classroom and observing.  I've gotten to watch my son be an awesome friend.  I've gotten to watch my son be an awesome friend to children who don't return the favor.  His friendships are one way.  I've been there to observe as he defends his classmates...helps them...cheers them on...cheers them up.  I've been there to see as he checks in to see how everyone is doing.  I've been there to observe as none of them do the same for him.  I've been there to see him getting poked fun at.  I've been there to see him being ostracized.  

I've been angrier than I ever dreamed possible. 

He's learning, sadly, the lesson I learned when I was his age.  It's those of us who know what it feels like to be on the outside, that grow up sensitive to the needs of others.  We are the ones who never turn away or shut out.  I admire that about him…that ability to take in all that cruelty and remake it into something positive.  

But I want more for him. Oh, so much more!  I want him to have confidants, and pals. Chums and buddies.  Acquaintances and bff's.  I want him to have play dates and sleepovers and birthday party invitations. I want him to have all those moments of childhood and adolescence and adulthood that are so firmly rooted in relationships with others. I want him to have friends.

If you want to know what makes a good friend, ask someone who is one but doesn't have any.  

If you want to know what makes a good friend, ask my son.

Who knows best what to appreciate?  

Only the lonely.