Friendship Found

“Don’t they call that a tramp stamp?” I exclaimed to my ex-husband, John, on the phone that evening.

Was I really supposed to accept the fact that this young girl was the one he was most interested in? That was nine years ago. Time surely does change things. You know, we don't go shopping for new friends like we would for new furniture. No, they usually just show up in the strangest places, like finding a priceless piece of treasure at the local consignment shop; or better yet, finding a long lost family heirloom that you didn’t even know you were missing.

Her name is Amanda. She showed up that smoldering summer day in 2002 in her hot pink short shorts. I think I probably referred to them as “hoochie-momma pants”. She was there to meet me; this painful formality that I had to endure. My ex-husband had fallen in love again. At eight years his junior, she was tall, blonde and gorgeous like a model. A far cry from my short and motherly stature in whatever cleaning attire I was wearing on that steamy Saturday. I wasn’t the petite gymnast that I once was. In fact, standing next to this living, breathing Barbie doll, I felt more like a short version of Jabba, the Hut.

Oh, she was plenty nice, and I welcomed her with a warm hug, as every good Southern woman would do. After all, to top if all off, she was a Yankee! Then, following our embrace, she turns to offer her affection to my sweet, little 5 year-old angel, which she has of course already met, along with my oldest of 8 years. I’d already heard of this “Amanda” time and time again on “the fun weekends with Daddy”. As she bends over to tickle and poke at MY daughter that she seems to have already developed a connection with, there it is, the tattoo. Never mind that her little waist was void of any baby carrying stretch marks. Never mind that her taut, young skin seemed to sparkle with whatever girlie lotion she probably applied just a short hour or so beforehand. All of that was just superfluous youth, oozing out of her presence. But the tattoo, it was significant.

Well, it lasted. This young girl of 20-something had managed to stick around and fasten herself to my little family. I say my little family because regardless of the fact that John and I had divorced a few years prior, we remained very close friends and very much partners in raising our girls. We were so close, in fact, that several times a week he called me, giving me the play-by-play of their blossoming relationship. I was happy for him that he was happy — I truly was — but coming to accept this other woman, this very young woman, as someone that would help raise my children was far more than I could believe. What did she know about mothering? She was even an only child! Her closest encounter with little ones was probably plastic and grown in the cabbage patch!

Regardless of her inexperience though, Amanda rose to the challenge. In those years of sour-faced regret for things in the past that I could not change, I managed to become someone that I was not, and all along, I watched her stand firm. I had developed an uncanny ability to become involved in tumultuous relationships that were unhealthy, and sometimes even abusive. During those times, she carefully chose where to step, and sometimes quietly offered her advice. I was an emotional mess, and to top if off, my oldest daughter began to rebel. In 2007, life was beginning to be yanked from beneath me, like the trick with the tablecloth and the unmoving fine China. Everything was changing. I tried to put on a face and make everything appear to be normal from the outside, or maybe I just thought I was doing a good job of that.

In 2008, Amanda became a mother. She gave birth to a son, a brother for my girls, a namesake for John, and yet I still barely knew her outside of the Cliff’s Notes that I received from my kids after those weekends when it seemed that discipline evaporated, and movies, candy and popcorn were in great abundance. Needless to say, often times my girls played Amanda and I against one another for attention’s sake. It seemed that my oldest daughter had come to resent her for taking a lot of Daddy’s attention, and my youngest daughter just wanted everyone to keep the peace.  

The year of 2009 is one that John, Amanda and I collectively would all like to change. My oldest became so rebellious; she was out of control. It was during that year I lost all sense of myself. I had no control over my teenage daughter, and I was falling apart. I felt like a failure. It was during this treacherous time that Amanda and I began to bond. What I had failed to understand during all those years was that she wasn’t just a young girl with a tattoo. She was a wise, kindred spirit that had come to love my girls unconditionally; and she was hurting too.

It’s been three years since Amanda and I began our friendship in the face of adversity. Since that time, she has been there for me and carried me through some of the hardest days of my life. We’ve developed a bond that is confusing, at best, to people around us.

I didn’t know Amanda was a missing piece in my life until I found her. But, I found her the same way you find that long lost family heirloom you didn’t even know you were missing. She is indeed a part of my little family, and like her tattoo, she has left an everlasting mark on my life.