Parents of Preschoolers  Discussion Forum

Do you have any childhood memories that you didn?t understand until you were an adult (or teen)? Swapna replied. I turned 12 in seventh grade and decided to have a small party at my house, three other girls and four boys. One of the other girls couldn?t come last minute. The party began on a late Saturday afternoon. There was seven of us. One of the boys came in about 10 minutes late and he came to the front door, where there was not driveway or sidewalk. The other boys ran out to help him as his mom parked her car on the street; the four of them struggled to carry in a huge, very tall, box, prettily gift wrapped. I think we ate, then unwrapped presents. We were to all hang out in our Playroom, but because of the heavy and huge present, we stayed in our living room, which I thought too formal and cold. Oh well. I unwrapped the other gifts, saving the big box for last. When I opened it, there was another box inside, then another box, and another. I must have gone through ten boxes to get down to a small jewelry box, where there was a small locket inside. The other gifts I received were things such as gloves, a scarf. . . .honestly, I can?t remember any of the gifts; I was too excited about my first boy-girl party and hoping all went well so that no one would report my first party as a failure. While we three gals looked over all the gifts once again, we noticed all the boys had disappeared. They were in the Playroom, watching TV. One of the boys? father ran an used car dealership and sponsored Saturday night wrestling. The boys were in there watching men, dressed up in costumes, wrassle with each other. They paid no attention to any of us girls. Everyone went home around 9 p.m. What a failure. We didn?t even get to listen to any of my groovy new 45s on my turntable. We didn?t even try to dance. No one made a suggestion of looking for a cola bottle to spin. An utter debacle. And I had the tremendous luck that none of my siblings appeared, as they were being good for a change. Only my parents made an appearance from time to time, offering more food, beverages. What had gone wrong? Years later at my 10th high school reunion, someone brought up a conversation about my 7th grade birthday party. The people who had been there all raved about the party. Really? It was one of the best parties in middle school? This happened again at my 20th reunion. Chatter, chatter, chatter about this 7th grade party. Maybe I wasn?t a social failure as I had thought. Everyone had such good memories. And, even people who hadn?t been invited (my mother would only allowed eight at this first party), made comments on what they had heard. I felt special. At my 30th high school reunion, when the party was brought back up, I really listened to what was said, why it was said, and who said what. I realized several things, at the age of 48 that I hadn?t at 12, 28, or even at 38. Everyone talked about the party as being special, not about me as someone special. Everyone talked about my house as something exciting, not about me as an exciting person. The six of them, the invitees, could have this wonderful conversation totally without me. When I realized what lay at the core of their excitement, I wasn?t angry or offended; I was way beyond those emotions at the age of 48. At that point of time, their excitement merely amused me. Slightly. I discovered at 48, the true excitement of coming to my 12th birthday party wasn?t me turning 12, but the first time any of them had been inside a Biltmore Forest home. That was the exciting part. They were living out a dream. Too bad my Biltmore Forest house wasn?t grander. If only I could have taken them over one block, to a neighbor?s house where there was a large wing added for the gentleman?s safari collection. Whether his collection was right or wrong isn?t important here. The room which housed this collection was magnificent; it was like a tall, wooden chapel inside with dark wooden beams and a dark wood ceiling and all the walls were filled with treasures from around the world. His wasn?t the only spectacular home I could have shown my classmates. Biltmore Forest was full of them. Unfortunately for my classmates, my house was only 2500 square feet, a brick ?cottage? on one acre. Nothing special or exciting. What my house actually looked like didn?t matter to them either. They now had bragging rights. ?Oh, yes. I?ve been to a party in Biltmore Forest.? ?I partied in a Biltmore Forest house.? My name need not be attached. Remember when I said ?. . .their excitement merely amused me. Slightly.? I realized at 48, they never were friends at all. I was the means to an end. That was all. Never have I been back to a reunion. All those that I did love, and who loved me back, are now dead. I have real friends in my life now. . Thank you for the question, Marie Kuehler.