When we were kids, friendship was a free-for-all. It didn’t matter if they were the mean kids at school or the ones who played in the sand. I remember watching my son approach a couple of girls at the park, confidently introducing himself as “Captain Awesome.” They threw some snarky remarks his way before bolting off, yet my little guy shrugged it off and later insisted they were his friends.
Then came the school years, where making friends feels like musical chairs. You scramble to find a group to join as soon as the music stops, just to avoid the embarrassment of being left out—especially at the lunch table. High school friendships often come with a prefix, like “boyfriend,” which adds a whole new layer of complexity.
In college, you meet all sorts of friends, but let’s be real—some of them only show up when it’s time to hit the bars and then disappear when they meet someone else. Eventually, you collect different kinds of friends along the way, some becoming closer than others. Then you settle down, get married, and have kids. That’s the route I took, and during this journey, I was fortunate enough to meet you.
Over the years, you have become my cherished friend, my confidant, and one of the few without kids. While we share countless laughs and deep conversations, there’s something I’ve never told you: I’m genuinely thankful you don’t have children.
When I was pregnant alongside some of my friends, I was beyond excited, thinking we’d be best buddies forever through our little ones. What I didn’t realize was that kids can have their own personalities, and sometimes they just don’t vibe. My son, for instance, has a knack for getting a bit too energetic in certain situations. There are places I can’t take him due to sensory overload, and while other moms chatter about organic baby food and saggy everything, our plans often get derailed by a wave of germs or illnesses. It’s like kids have busier schedules than most adults—with karate classes and visiting family, they practically run the show.
But you—you show up at every baby shower and birthday party. You’re the first person I call on a tough day. My kids absolutely adore you, and you seem to understand my son in a way that few others do. Plus, I can share my parenting blunders without fear of judgment.
In many ways, you remind me of clear nail polish. Did you know it’s a lifesaver? It can prevent your shoelaces from fraying, keep buttons intact, seal envelopes, and even waterproof matches. You are always there for me, helping me tidy up the messes life throws at me. Whether it’s a plan gone awry or just needing to chat, you’ve got a solution.
We’ve shared so many adventures, and you’ve been there as I navigated the wild ride of marriage and motherhood. You’ve witnessed my meltdowns and my moments of wanting to escape. Without you, my marriage would be rusty, and my kids might just be the loose screws. I’d probably be a soggy match!
So, while you’d make an amazing mom if you ever choose that path, I must confess that for now, I’m relieved you don’t have kids. Honestly, how would I manage my little ones without you?
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Summary
A heartfelt note from a mother to her friend without kids, expressing gratitude for their friendship and understanding. The author reflects on their shared experiences and the challenges of parenting, while appreciating the support and companionship their friend provides.