I spent last Saturday afternoon at my friend Mark’s parents’ house. Mark was running late (classic Mark), so I sat on the back porch with his mom, Diane. Fifteen years ago, I would have been awkwardly scrolling through my phone. This time, we talked.
When you’re young, you assume your friends' parents were always old. Now, when I look at Diane, I don't just see Mark’s mom. I see the girl from Oregon. I see the young wife. I see the exhausted mother of a toddler. It makes the gray hairs look less like aging and more like earned wisdom. friends mom
There is something validating about being liked by the matriarch of the group. She has seen you cry over a breakup, celebrate a promotion, and eat an entire tray of nachos. She knows you. And when she tells you she’s proud of you, it feels like a bonus parent stamp of approval. I spent last Saturday afternoon at my friend
When you’re a teenager, she’s just "Mrs. Davis." She’s the one who yells up the stairs that pizza rolls are ready, asks if you need a ride home, and gives you that look when you and her son are pushing curfew by eleven minutes. This time, we talked
The Quiet Wisdom of My Friend’s Mom