It happens every time.  My heart sinks so low I’m instantly nauseous, and I feel tiny pinpricks behind each of my eyes, threatening me with heavy tears I can hardly contain.  It happens every single time I think about it, and I think about it most in August.  Not because it happened in August, but because that’s when school starts, and the scenario replays in my head as I prepare to send my children off to the place it’s most likely to happen again.

He was not yet three, and his baby sister, sleeping at home under grandma’s watchful eye, had only recently entered the scene.  It was a beautiful fall day – the kind where the sky is so clear and blue you don’t want to take your eyes off it, and the air is filled with the promise of crisp mornings, wool sweaters, and rapidly approaching holidays.  It was a perfect day for an outing. 

And so we went, my little boy and I, to enjoy some one-on-one time at the park down the street, the one where the train rushes by so close and so loud you have to cover your ears as it passes.  I can picture Charlie on that day.  I remember the navy shorts he was wearing, and the way his chubby legs barely peeked out from beneath them.  I can see the striped long-sleeve shirt he had on and the way his blond hair fell softly across his forehead.  I can feel his hand in mine, plump and warm, just before he let go and went running towards the swings, a joyous grin on his precious face. 

We were alone at the park for quite some time, content to revel in the sunshine as we tried out each piece of equipment.  Then, a little girl showed up with a woman I assume was her babysitter.  She was a bit older than my son, maybe a year or so, and equally as determined to make her mark on every area of fun the playground had to offer. 

Charlie observed the girl quietly for several minutes, as he often did when other children came around. Typically shy and calm, I expected my son would quickly return to his own activity, which at that moment, involved a shovel, a bucket, and a whole lot of sand.  Instead, Charlie did the unexpected, and my life was forever changed.

It plays out in slow motion in my mind – like a bad after school special from the 1980’s or something.  Ridiculous I know, but it’s as if the world goes silent while I watch the shovel and bucket drop from my son’s hands as he takes off running towards the little girl on the other side of the park.

“Friend!  Hey, friend!”

I am taken aback as the silence is broken by the sound of his voice, calling out in confidence, full of belief that he has recognized a peer . . . a playmate . . . a friend. 

“Hey, friend!  Let’s swing.  Hey, friend!  Come on.  Hey, friend!  Let’s play.”

So unlike my Charlie, and I am filled with pride as I wait for the little girl to respond, to join my son in games and fun on this perfect fall day.  

What happened next wasn’t unusual, but it is etched so deeply into my memory I will remember it until the day I die.  It wasn’t a tragedy.  I know that.  Still, it ignited a feeling so intense I can only describe it as one of the most monumental I’ve ever experienced. 

The little girl rejected my son.  She ignored him.  She walked away.  She didn’t even make eye contact with Charlie as he followed her around the park calling to her.

 “Hey, Friend!”

He was nothing if not persistent, and the tears spill over as I recall the hopeful expression on my son’s face as he attempted to reach out to another child, and failed, because the child simply did not care.

The scenario has probably occurred at least once more since that fall day, but I wasn’t there to witness it.  It will likely happen again in the years ahead, despite my prayers that it won’t.  Truthfully, who wants to raise a child who has never experienced the heartache of rejection?  We all need to know what it feels like to hurt, or else how will we know how to comfort others when they are hurting.  

Still, that day at the park was a revelation to me as the mother of a two year old.  Of course, I already knew I adored my son.  I knew I loved Charlie with all my heart and soul, and I had long before vowed to protect him at all costs.  But our experience that morning showed me the depth of desire I have for my son to be loved by others.  And it showed me just how tightly my happiness is wound in his.

He hopped out of the car this morning with a smile, headed to school for his first day of fourth grade.  He didn’t let me kiss his cheek, but he gave me a hug before we walked out the door, his head touching my shoulder now that he’s nearly ten years old.  And as he walked away from the car, his long legs dangling from his shorts as he rushed towards the front door, I prayed the same prayer I’ve prayed each and every day since that August morning at the park almost eight years ago.  I prayed that when my son calls out for a friend, he will always find one.