Our time is the right time AKA: Why we're friends

My tribe: acquaintances, friends, and "My Chico"

Spring 1991

I have several really good friends and I appreciate all of them for their uniqueness. I appreciate surrounding myself with good, loving people. I have a few people who I call friends, but realize that they are more acquaintances than friends. We enjoy time together, but we aren't necessarily in any sort of regular communication. I have "new" friends who I realized that I've been friends with for well over ten years. And then, I have My Chico. It actually seems insufficient to simply call her friend. But, let me tell you a little bit more about why. It goes beyond the fact that we have been friends for almost 26 years (which is two-thirds of my life, for those interested in it in mathematical terms.)

January 1993

Sharing with my kids

A few days ago, as we sat around the dinner table, Miss Hollywood asked me where I went to school. I responded with a question, "for which grade?" I went on the explain that we moved a lot when I was young and I attended several schools. I proceeded to walk CD and Miss Hollywood through all of the different schools I attended between kindergarten and college. As I got to talking about middle school, I shared some of the struggles I had and how miserable I was at times. CD looked stunned and said, "oh no!" I replied, "but this story has a really happy ending. Do you want to hear it?" He perked up and listened on as I went on describe moving one-quarter of the way into eighth grade. And then I shared that it was then that I met My Chico. Of course, he knows her well and knows how important she is in all of our lives. The next night, we were having dinner with My Chico and her family. I shared with her the previous night's conversation. Something small and seemingly insignificant to the outside ear was said and we agreed, "that's why we're still friends after all these years."

20 year high school reunion October 2015

More of why we're friends

Yesterday, we were off on an adventure. I had promised the kids that we would go bowling. As Saturday neared, I reached out to my Chico to see if she would like to join us. It worked out well and we planned to have a nice family outing in the afternoon. I was scrambling, trying to get the kids ready, make sure I was ready and minutes kept ticking away. I knew we were running later than planned. I went to my phone. I knew I would need to send a message. There it was, a message from her about running late. A couple of texts later and the "one of the reasons why we're friends" exchange came.

October 2015

Summer 2016

Our years of friendship have not been picture perfect. We had a few years where communication was minimal, but we maintained contact. We never completely lost touch. I'm sure there was a point where our friendship was hanging by the proverbial thread, but that thread gave us something to sew together and get back to where we were, but better and stronger than ever. Weave in our children now and there is much awesomeness to behold. She is far more than a friend or a best friend really. She is my sister. No doubt about it.

What makes it work? We have similar interests, but we also have some differences. She tells it like it is and I appreciate that. I can go to her house and help her throw away things, she can come to mine and do the same. We listen to each other. We talk, we laugh, we cry together. We look out for each other and we look out for each other's children. We celebrate the smallest victories and try to solve the problems of the world one conversation at a time. Our families are family. And we generally "get" each other.

That bowling trip yesterday? We all arrived right on time. Our time. Our time is the right time. We had a wonderful family adventure. Her almost two-year-old skunked us in one game and I won a game for the first time ever, as far as I remember. We learned together that with three kids in tow, we will stick to only playing one game. For now. It will be fun to see how many games we can play in a few years.