Let’s All Go Out and Hug a Child. Just Make Sure You Know Them First.

Posted on December 22, 2009
Filed Under Daily, Family, My Best Friend is an 8 Year Old, The Gang: Little BFF & Co. | 10 Comments

For the past two weeks, Little BFF and I have been missing each other’s phone calls. When she calls me, I’m at work, or heating dinner for when The Boss gets home, and by the time I call her back, she’s already in bed — what, with the three hour difference, and seeing as she’s only 8 years old and all.

Note to self: Stop calling Little BFF after 8:30 p.m. on school nights.
Note to self #2: Convince cousin to get Little BFF a cell phone so she and I can text while I’m at work, and while she’s at her desk in third grade.

Over the weekend, Northern Virginia got a ton of snow, so my mom packed an overnight bag, and spend a few days with my cousins, which happens to be where Little BFF lives too. While on the phone with my mom, she told me that everytime the phone rang, Little BFF would scurry around like a mad person hoping I was the one calling, which was so cute to me, but probably a little annoying for her parents.

As I’m talking to my mom, she interrupts me and goes, “Sabrina, I’ve just been handed a note scribbled down on a paper towel. It says, ‘Can I talk to Sibby? Yes/No’ and I’m supposed to circle one.” Since I enjoy being mean to children, I told my mom to pretend like she was going to circle No. So she pretends to do that, and then cracks up, and goes, “She looks so sad, her little face just dropped” at which point I started laughing really hard. Poor Little BFF’s feelings were shattering around the room like shards of broken glass, while my mom and were cackling like two evil minions playing spider on a swing set while throwing stones at all the other children waiting for a turn.

Eventually, my mom circled Yes,  and Little BFF and I got chatting. Among the many things we talked about, we concocted our own little scheme of covering her dad’s shovel with pink rhinestones, and then renting it to all the neighbors for $5 a minute so they could rid their driveways of snow. I’m teaching her how to be a humanitarian, and a business woman ya’ll! Since Little BFF has been pretty good at math up to this point, I said, “Okay, so if we rented the shovel for $5 a minute, and one neighbor shoveled for five minutes, how much money would we make?” and she blurts out, “EIGHT!” and I was all, “What?” and she goes, “Uh…” and I go, “HELLO. FIVE TIMES FIVE?” and she was all, “Oh, 25. Yeah, yeah, Sibby, I know” and then I wanted to reach through the phone and hug her, because she really is my best friend.

After I got off the phone with Little BFF, I was thinking about what my mom said — about how Little BFF kept running to the phone when it rang hoping it was me — and it made me smile. When I was living on the east coast, Little BFF and I spent practically every waking moment together.  We’d make up songs, and random games, and talk about school, life, and work. And these were and still are legitimate conversations. I don’t do baby talk. Never have, never will. Hand me a newborn, and I’ll straight up talk about immigration issues, and tell him how he was conceived. Okay, well maybe I won’t go as far as to talk about immigration since that can be a touchy subject for some people.

Little BFF mimics EVERYTHING I do from the way I dress, to the way I talk, to how I accessorize — she even has my mannerisms down to a science. There came a point when I could run upstairs to grab socks, and by the time I closed the drawer, she’d be standing right there in the doorway. It was kind of scary, but probably more awesome if I had to pick one. Naturally, I’m totally flattered by her adoration of me, and I think her parents are just happy I’m not a serial killer.

When The Boss and I went home for my sister’s wedding, my cousins invited us over for dinner with a dozen of our out-of-town and out-of-country relatives who were visiting for the wedding. But the moment we got there, I totally lost sight of everyone except Little BFF. I hardly said “Salaam” to anyone before Little BFF and I ran into each other’s arms, jumped up and down, and then twirled, and ran in place while screaming, and then locked ourselves in the bathroom comparing haircuts. My mom and cousin had to bang on the door to get us out, and when we finally emerged, Little BFF got a slight scolding from my cousin, and my mom was all clenching her teeth, and giving me looks, like YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME. I think the anger had something to do with our manners, but I’m not sure. I was too busy high-fiving Little BFF over us getting in trouble together.

Hey, at least I’M NOT A SERIAL KILLER.

The more I thought about my relationship with Little BFF, I realized that our close-knit bond of love and friendship is based solely around the time we spend together. I don’t let her do anything her parents wouldn’t let her do, so it’s not like I’m the “cool aunt.” I’ve never taken her to like, Disney World, or ever bought her any extravagant presents, yet somehow we have a special bond that spans our massive age difference.

And that’s when I had a flash back.

When I was 11 years old, I went to India for the first time to visit some of my mom’s family. I knew about all her cousins, and aunts, uncles, and best friends from stories she’d told me my whole life. But while I listened to tales from her childhood, my imagination worked overtime trying to visualize all the places, and faces that she longed for. Finally, in 1995, we headed to the place where I would finally meet the people my mom had talked so lovingly about since I was a child. Among the many special people I met that trip, I met a woman who was a rock in my mom’s life. Since my mom’s mother died when my mom was 4 years old, her aunt was basically a mother to my mom. Seeing as their bond was so strong, it made sense that my sister and I were taught to call my mom’s aunt, “Nanima,” which is a term of endearment for a grandmother.

Nanima was an incredibly kind soul. The type of kind that doesn’t really exist in the world anymore. She was gentle, soft-spoken, had a great sense of humor, and an infectious laugh. She used to let me braid her hair, and put makeup on her, and the joy she felt when she was with us was absolutely transparent. You could actually feel her soaking in every moment she spent with my sister and me. During the day, Nanima sat down at her sewing machine, and one day, I asked her if she would teach me how to make something. Without even a moment’s hesitation, she stopped what she was doing, and asked me what I wanted to make. I told her I wanted to make a small pillow. I wanted it to be heart-shaped, with flowers, and a lace border all the way around. She told me to draw a rough sketch of my idea, and then she spent the next 15 minutes looking for the perfect fabrics to match my vision. We sat together for about an hour as she showed me how to get the right rhythm when using a sewing machine with a large two-food pedal, and she helped me just enough to keep my momentum going, but not enough to take away my sense of independence.

We stuffed it with scrap fabric, and then sewed it shut. When we were finished, it was exactly like the drawing I made.

And it was perfect.

Around this time last year, my mom planned a trip to India after learning that Nanima was going to have heart surgery. Though the surgery wasn’t considered major, Nanima passed away due to post-surgery complications a few days later — something that no one, not even the doctors were expecting to happen. My sister, The Boss and I found out about Nanima’s death before my mom, and drove to my mom’s place to deliver the news. It’s not an easy task to tell your mom that the only woman she ever loved as her mother was gone. Though my mom was devastated, the grace, and restraint with which she handled the news will be forever etched in my mind. She still went to India a few weeks later, but I think happy, familiar places sometimes seem lonely when people you love are missing.

I’ve used and loved the pillow I made with Nanima for so many years. It’s been perched atop my vanity as a decorative piece, it’s been a cushion to my favorite rings, a pillow for my baby dolls, and now I use it as a place to keep my hijab pins. I’m sure Nanima bought me stuff when I was in India, like clothes, and little knick knacks, but I don’t have vivid memories of those things because they weren’t important to me when I was a kid. My memories of Nanima are of how she abandoned what she was doing to work on a project with me, and how she always engaged me in conversation even if what I was saying wasn’t of interest to her. But I guess that’s what made Nanima so special –  she was never uninterested in anyone.

I’m 18 years older than Little BFF, and I wonder what she’ll remember of me — of us — 20 years from now. Will it be the earring stand I bought her for Eid, or will it be the funny accents we make up at the dinner table, the time we nearly got trampled by a group of high school kids at the grocery store, or how we sat outside on the deck and had our own private picnic.

A woman once told me that children are just smaller versions of us — “little people,” was the exact phrase she used. As I get older, I’m starting to realize that how we treat any child at any moment is part of an unconscious, and on-going psycho-social study — the results of which will not be known until the kids today as as old we we are now. Nearly 15 years after the first time I met Nanima, I can still feel the way she looked at me, talked to me, treated me, and loved me. It is likely that a day will come when Little BFF is on this earth, and I am not. And when that day comes, I hope she will look back at the time we spent together, and remember me with the same fondness, gratitude, love, and affection with which I remember Nanima.

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