Older Friends

S and I are at the farmers' market with a friend and her two kids - a three-year-old daughter and a five-year-old son.  "Little kids."  S is great with little kids.  My mommy friend and I plop down on a patch of grass, break into the strawberries, and watch them crawl around in circles, growling, pouncing.

"We're jaguars!" the five year old calls out.

"We have to pass jaguar tests to prove we know how to hunt!" yells S, fully engrossed in the fantasy play she often eschews these days for baseball, board games, boogie boarding.  (The three "b"s).  S is usually holding a glove or other sports equipment these days; she's obsessed with baseball.  Baseball renders her serious.  She can tell you Mike Trout's stats and explain why you shouldn't bunt with two strikes.  There's something sweet and nostalgic about seeing her crawling around with younger kids, hearing her giggle as she pounces.  She's still part little kid, even as she surprises me with her insight and intellect, her growing interests and dismissal of "little kid things."

We had set up near the skate park on purpose, thinking the five year old boy would enjoy watching the "big kids" do their tricks.  For a while our kids are too involved in the jaguar training to even notice the growing skateboard crew, but when I look up from the strawberries, I notice S staring over.  I follow her look.

"Hey isn't that...?"
S nods.  "It's N."
"Wow.  He looks giant," I say.  I can't help it.  In his black skinny jeans and oversized t-shirt, his hat on backwards (no helmet, dammit), this is a big kid.  How can this be my baby's buddy?  How can this be another third grader?  I glance over at Sadie.  She is a big kid too.  N, at the top of the ramp, sees us.  S waves, a cool wave, one of those "what's up" half-waves.  An teenage wave.  N throws the same gesture back, with a "hey." They are cool.

I am not cool.  I yell out, "Hi N!  We haven't seen you in so long!  How's your summer?"
He gives me a slight nod, even cooler than the wave, and then flies down a ramp and up the other side.  I realize I have embarrassed him.  An old lady too happy to see him.  A liability.  I look around for his mother, his grandmother, anyone I recognize.  I realize he's there with a pack of teenage boys from his neighborhood.  I always walked to the park untethered the summer before third grade, but that was suburban New Jersey in the 70s.  This is LA in 2012.  I am so not ready for this.

N falls as he does a trick (how I wish I had the authority to make him put on a helmet) and immediately looks over at S to see if she's noticed.  She is as cool as he is.  How do they already know how to do this?  The five-year-old boy and his three-year-old sister have both stopped with the jaguar and are staring in wonder at N.
The five year old asks, "You know him?"
S says, "Yeah.  He's in my class at school."
My mom friend turns to me, "He's in her class?"
I nod and say quietly, "Scary, right?"
My quietly is never quiet enough.  S turns, "Why'd you say it's scary?"
"Oh, sorry.  I just mean it's a little funny as a mom to see you all growing up so fast."  I leaned down to nuzzle her cropped hair.  "And he should be wearing a helmet."
"Mom."  I note that she looks back toward the skate park to see if that was noticed.
We pack up and head out.  N half-watches to see if S is watching.  The little ones stare at him in wonder, while S walks ahead, not looking back.  Is she aware she's being eyed?  Is she ignoring on purpose?  Am I prepared for this new phase of coolness at all?

Later that day we hang with another girl from her class and while they practice diving, I tell her mother about the experience (making sure they're far enough away, underwater even), "I mean, here's an eight year old boy hanging out unsupervised with teenage boys, in a skate park.  There is no way that he isn't hearing certain things, and if I were him, I'd be psyched to be the one to pass them on to our wide-eyed little ones."  She cringes, I cringe.  We know it's coming.  "I just want to make sure that the first time they hear about...you know...blow jobs, they run the information by us."

I'm pretty sure I ruined her day.  But I remember third grade.  I remember truth or dare games deep in the cloister of the tire playground.  I remember taking my cute ceramic puppy and sitting it on top of Jason Zappa's model of the empire state building and when the building point went into the hole on the bottom of the puppy, a group of boys cracking up and implying...I didn't get it.  What did they mean I wanted Jason to put it inside me?  Put what and what?  Except I kind of got it.  And I was humiliated.  I still get hot in the cheeks when I remember that moment.

I am not a prude and I know this is all natural development.  I also know that LA in 2012 isn't New Jersey in the 70s.  These are really good kids.  And all this is coming.