From the Woman with the White Minivan

Last updated on: August 22, 2014 at 3:52 pm by Rebecca Frech

From the Woman with the White Minivan 2014-08-22T15:52:42-05:00 Rebecca Frech

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Okay, I am said woman w/minivan, and while I laugh/cry/write, I want to clear up a few things:

I never gave her a GTH look; it was more of a look of:

“If I move while I hold my baby (that I never put down) her apnea monitor alarm will pierce my eardrum…again. And I think Halloween costumes for babies are stupid. And that woman at my door is way too friendly…” The last bit, by the way, always makes a Yankee skittish…

That day “I emerged” I also wore pants. And there was no getting around that large group of clucking neighborhood hens. They blocked the entire sidewalk, and I knew I was being inspected. Hence, I was fully clothed.

It’s true, Baby A. is gorgeous, and has outgrown all health issues.

Her knees didn’t appear to be knocking, but her legs contributed to the perpetual mystery of why short women have slammin’ legs. And that was before she took up marathons.

She wasn’t bossy; it was a firm invitation. Polite but direct, the latter quality I always admire, and still do….

I was surprised, but only because as a military wife, you have to go and seek out your friends. I had never had an angel descend upon my doorstep and politely foist food and friendship on me, seemingly out of the blue. I was oblivious that the lone vehicle garnered any attention at all. I guess that’s what happens when you live in a neighborhood for more than a year.

It was the best 4 hours of conversation. The only other best thing she said that spring was when she showed me how to edge my lawn while my husband was away. She said, “So you went to prep school.” (wheewhee sound of the weed whacker here) “So you learned to row.” (wheewhee) “You went to X school.” (wheewhee) “Didja ever learn anything useful?” Oh, that still makes me laugh. That was when I knew she was a friend for life. And that she’d turn up in my someday novel.

I don’t know that milk and sugar is the “British way”, so much as the way I’d request it “creamy and sweet” to torment my tutor. St. Augustine was young once, too.

She is not my best friend, she is more like a sister. She is the reason my baby finally tried solid foods, she is the reason I can mow my lawn and I know useful things. She is why I eventually took ownership of being Catholic, and why I survived the subsequent years of deployments. She is who I cried w/over infertility and the trauma and drama of war. She is who I know will laugh at the same things I do. She is a living example of what it means to be real and set the standard of friendship/family at the same time. Anyone would be lucky to have her as a neighbor, friend, sister, daughter, mom, aunt, etc. You get the idea. And don’t even get me started on all those great kids….. 🙂

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