Keepin’ it real, friend edition

The other day I was driving my 10-year-old daughter home from swim practice, and we passed the home where a family we knew used to live.

“Do you remember Q, the little girl who lived there?” I asked.

“No. Yeah. Sort of,” she answered. “What happened to her anyway?”

“Her family moved away,” I said.

“Oh,” she answered. Then after a moment, she surprised me by asking:

“Were you and Dad friends with her parents?”

“Yeah. No. Sort of,” I replied. “I mean, we were, and then we weren’t.”

“Why not?” she asked.

“Well…” I stalled for time, trying to think of the shortest, truest way to answer this question. Too often I get bogged down in an explanation, say, with questions about vaginal vs. C-section births, and end up overwhelming my kids (and grossing them out).

“The adults weren’t very nice to each other. I mean, Dad and I could tell they were stressed out. But they were always snapping at each other. Like, in front of us! And we were like, ‘can you imagine what they’re like when no one’s around?’ And they were so fussy with the kids! ‘Don’t do this, don’t touch that, stay away from that!’ It was hard to watch. And you know, Q’s dad? We went out with them a couple of times, just as grownups, and he never let anyone else have a turn talking. I mean, he had a really interesting job, and he talked about it a lot. But no one, including Q’s mom, ever had a chance to say anything because he was constantly talking and a terrible listener.”

“Huh,” said my daughter.

I was on a roll now, really digging the challenge of a pared-down version of administering myself truth serum.

“In the end, Dad and I just were like, life’s too short to hang out with people like that, who aren’t nice to each other and aren’t particularly nice to us either. Who needs friends like that?” I said.

My daughter stared out the car window. The whole monologue had taken less than three blocks, stopping at four-way stop signs.

“Can I have a popsicle?” she asked.