a true story about belonging
The Parallel Pile
She's three steps from the big kids when she turns around and buries her face in my leg.
the realization
I kept handing her a sentence to say, like the words were the problem. They weren't. She didn't need a script, she needed somebody to sit down next to her while she figured out how close she wanted to get.
We got to the sandbox and there were four bigger kids already in it, digging some huge trench thing. Mia made it about three steps. Then she turned around and pressed her whole face into my leg, one hand twisted in my skirt.
have you ever felt this way too?
So I did what I always do. I gave her the words. Just go ask. Say can I play too. That's all you have to say. I said it maybe five times, each one a little brighter than the last, and the more I said it the harder she held on. I know that grip. I was that kid at every birthday party, standing by the snack table like I had a job there.
So I stopped talking and sat down in the grass. Told her I don't always know what to say to new people either. Then, after a while, that she could take her bucket over if she wanted, and she didn't have to say anything to anybody.
She picked it up. Walked over. Started her own pile about four feet from theirs, close enough to hear them. Nobody cheered, nobody noticed. I sat on my hands so I wouldn't wave or narrate or ruin it. Then one of the big kids glanced over and said your bucket's blue. She nodded. Kept digging.
what I found myself saying
""I don't always know what to say to new people either.""
""You can take your bucket over. You don't have to say anything.""
""We can just sit here and watch for a bit.""
