Everyone should have such troubles

My husband recently interviewed for a job near my hometown, which is about 1200 miles south of here. I have a list of reasons why moving south would be the right thing for our family. One of these is that we no longer have a religious community to call our own, because we have left the shul where we were very involved until about a year ago. It was such a part of our lives, of our development as people, as spouses and as parents that I long to belong somewhere again. And none of the other shuls in town really suit us.

Yet I have such a contrary nature that, once the man had found an interesting position to try for, I immediately started making a mental list of all the things I love about living here. I love the house we rent. I love my doctor, doula, chiroprator, dentist and hairdresser. I am just a tiny bit difficult, so this is a minor miracle in itself. I know all the people who run all the kosher groceries and restaraunts in town. I know the people at the market and the post office and the library. I know the people in my neigh-bor-hood, my neigh-bor-hood, my neigh-bor-ho-od!

I was not raised having these kinds of connections. I was raised to defend against anyone knowing too much about us. We lied about our address so that my father could not find and kidnap us. We didn't have people over to the house. The back gate had a padlock on it, and when the poor meter man would come to read the meter, my mother would pretend we weren't home. My mother considered the cashiers and clerks and deliverymen of our world beneath us. We were pretty isolated.

I was visiting with a friend today, and I was suprised to hear myself say that here, in this town, I have "too many friends". And of course that's not really what I mean. That brings to mind a mob of people chasing my limo down the street, battering the windows in the vain hope of getting an instant of personal contact with me in the brief seconds between the car window breaking and the crush of people killing me.

What I mean is that I have a lot of people that I am friendly with, that are something a bit more than acquaintances, but a bit less than bosom friends. Many of these people I'd like to know better, but the combination of our schedules (many work and have kids, some with special needs) means that we end up getting together infrequently - every few months rather than every few weeks. I talk to stangers, so I meet people at the park, at baby classes, at the cafe in the JCC. I know ex-classmates from two degrees, ex-coworkers, Jews at six synagogues, neighbors, people from baby classes, LLL, the local AP group, people that were originally my husband's friends at school, some of my husband's relatives, etc. I rarely go to the park or drop-in gym or a new baby class anymore without recognizing someone.

And sure, not everyone is destined to be a close friend. Often, someone will ask about the Bean nursing, or my use of a sling, or if I'm bored at home with "nothing to do" or whatever, and they'll comment on what I "need" to do to correct my parenting deficiences. And I will realize that I am not talking to a kindred spirit. But at this point, I still know way more lovely people than I can be close to at once. I know enough that I end up making little lists of who to call for fear that Debra's new, beautiful son will be walking before I haul myself over there with a baby gift.

I have no idea how long it would take me to settle in to this extent if we do move south. Since I never had this kind of pool of acquaintances and friends growing up, it seems like this delicate, precious thing to me. I want to believe it is just the result of living in the present and being friendly to people as they come and go around me. But I fear it would be hard to rebuild something similar elsewhere. But, regardless of the truth about this point, shouldn't everyone have such troubles?