Friends and Daughters

The older I get, the harder it seems to be to make new friends; I certainly have an abundance of acquaintances, but somehow we all seem to find it hard to really let anyone in. So often, as grown-ups, fear of tarnishing the illusions we work so hard to create prevents us from letting our guard down. Our children, our marriages, our homes, our finances: we never truly want to admit to anything being less than perfect.

I decided on a whim this week to take the Small Girl to London with me for a couple of nights. The Very Small Boy is big enough now to cope with my absence for short periods, and I thought it would be nice to have some much-needed time to concentrate on the Small Girl, whose needs so often get sidelined with a fussy toddler around. I was also keen to re-introduce her to some of my oldest friends (whom she has met before but couldn’t really remember), some of whom now have children of their own (whom I had never met but felt I knew, having heard so much about them).

We landed at Gatwick, where Granddad picked us up after a surprisingly easy journey (without the need for unwieldy baby accessories or complicated entertainment, or even check-in luggage). The Small Girl was thrilled to see her Granddad again, particularly as he had invited Uncle Queue and his girlfriend to dinner that evening: “A dinner party, just like on Come Dine With Me!” as she put it excitedly before passing out exhausted on the sofa.

The following day, we made our way out for a playdate with two of my friends and their daughters. I was overcome with emotion to see the friends of my childhood with daughters of their own; their own little versions of themselves. And back in the streets where we grew up, our daughters spent a day getting to know each other, and we slipped with the ease of familiarity into talking about the things that really concern us: the way that responsibility has taken away the freedom of our youth; how we are all struggling to retain a sense of individuality as mothers; why it’s so frustrating trying to meet new friends when everyone maintains the pretence of infallibility.

I am extraordinarily lucky that my dearest friends remain those who have known me practically all my life. As a group, we shared all the triumphs and losses of growing up; all the firsts, the fears, the frustrations, the dreams. As adults, we have experienced all of life together: all of love and loss, bereavement and motherhood, careers and aspirations and disappointment. They are brave, strong, intelligent, articulate, women and the only people (apart from my family) who I can truly be myself with; for only they truly know me.

That night, after going home and putting our daughters to bed, we went out to meet the rest of The Girls (those who still live in London; there were a couple of notable absences) for dinner and drinks. And for that night, I ceased to be a mother, a wife, a grown-up. I was just a carefree girl again, high on life: out on the town with my friends.