When I was a kid, I remember tugging on my mom’s hand a lot, with a repeated chorus of “Come ON, Mom!” probably being echoed by my brother and sister as well.
Because she was always talking with her friends and she just wouldn’t stop! Talking, talking, talking. I couldn’t imagine what in the world could be so interesting that they had to just talk and talk to each other about it.
Now I get it. I’m perfectly happy when I have loads of time to chat with my friends, either on the phone or (even better!) in person.
Sometimes it’s good to be able to talk about Big Issues. How we’re raising our kids, or what life would be shaped like if we didn’t have them. What to do when parents need help. What’s going to happen next.
Sometimes it’s good to talk about little issues. Teeth falling out. Books to read. Drafty windows. New shoes.
I find that when it comes to my friends, I’m equally interested in both.
I’ve been having lots of play dates of my own lately – tagging along with John when he visits a friend so I can have some quality time with the friend’s parents. Or maybe sneaking off for brunch (why doesn’t it feel like sneaking? It just does.) so I can catch up with a friend that I don’t see enough of. Or maybe just gabbing on the phone with friends from away.
Possibly I talk too much. But I don’t mind it at all. These days it’s not uncommon for me to feel John tugging and yanking at my hand, impatient for me to be quiet and get on with the day. Unaware that all that talking is actually a really good part of it.