Grab Another Chair

On being the person who goes first

Photo by bruce mars on Unsplash

“Do you want to be my friend?” the young girl asked my daughter.

It was the first day of summer camp at Busch Gardens. Since the camp was hours away from where we live in northern Virginia, my daughters knew they wouldn’t know anyone. But both of my daughters are incredibly social. I joke that my 11-year-old has never met a stranger. She has significantly more confidence than I did at that age, when the idea of having to make friends with an entirely new group of kids would have rattled me.

The drop-off process was a little disorganized, but my 7-year-old quickly found her age group and sat down to color without much of a goodbye to her parents.

But my 11-year-old froze. There weren’t any seats left, and she (understandably) didn’t want to sit by herself. Plus, it seemed like most of these kids already knew each other.

And then one girl noticed that my daughter was nervous, came over, and threw out that lifeline: “Do you want to be my friend?”

My daughter nodded, and the other girl grabbed a chair and made space at her table. She introduced my daughter to the other kids, who quickly welcomed her into the conversation. My daughter gave her a small, grateful smile.

As I left, satisfied that everything was okay, I was almost in tears with gratitude for that girl—for doing something I don’t think I do often enough in my own life: being the person who invites a stranger to join.

I’m not nearly as outgoing and vivacious as my daughters. Like many adults, I don’t make friends easily. Given the choice, I’d rather stay comfortably with my group of besties than venture outside my established circle.

In fact, my husband has gently teased me that I need to make friends with more of my younger daughter’s classmates’ parents. Over the years, I’ve made some amazing friends through my older daughter and her classmates.

“But I have plenty of mom friends!” I whined.

“Yeah, but it would be nice to have friends over and have someone for our younger daughter to play with,” he reasoned.

He wasn’t wrong. So I’ve tried to make more of an effort. But my initial reaction probably says something about why making friends as an adult can be so hard: once we have our people, it’s easy to stop looking for anyone else.

It’s not that I don’t like expanding my circle. In fact, while I’m not the most approachable before you get to know me, I actually love bringing seemingly disparate friend groups together. One of my favorite Christmas traditions is throwing a huge brunch for our friends. We intentionally invite people from all the different parts of our lives, and I absolutely love introducing a mom friend to a friend from work because their kids play the same sport. Or a friend from college to a neighbor because they both love to bake.

But that’s when I’m playing the role of hostess.

As adults, we rarely consciously decide I’m not going to include that person. We just give ourselves a dozen tiny reasons not to be the one who goes first. Maybe she’s waiting for someone. Maybe he wants to be alone. Maybe it’ll be awkward. Maybe they already know each other. Someone else will probably say something.

It’s easier for a kid to say something very literal like, “Do you want to be my friend?”

As an adult, that same invitation comes out more like, “Um, hi. You’re obviously welcome to sit with us. Unless you’re waiting for someone. Or just enjoying being alone. In which case, please ignore me.”

When we picked my daughters up from camp that afternoon, you would never have known the morning had gotten off to a rocky start. Both girls had a fantastic day and could rattle off the names of plenty of new friends.

I asked my older daughter if she was grateful to the girl who had talked to her first that morning. She was.

And because I can’t resist a teachable moment, I said, “When you start middle school next month, remember how this felt.”

She has perfected the pre-teen eye roll, but I think she appreciated the point I was trying to make.

And given how socially treacherous middle school can be, I hope she does remember how it felt. I hope that when she walks into the cafeteria and easily finds her people, she remembers what it was like to be the one standing there without a seat. And if she notices someone else hovering at the edge of the room, looking for somewhere to belong, I hope she’ll be the one who scoots over.

But I need to remember this, too.

There will be plenty of times when I’m already sitting comfortably at the table with people I know and love, while someone else is still looking for somewhere to sit.

I don’t have to become the person who works every room or makes a new best friend everywhere she goes. That’s not me.

But I can notice.

I can make the introduction. I can start the conversation. I can scoot over.

I can grab another chair.