This past weekend, there was a neighborhood block party.
When the invitation for the block party first showed up, I was of two minds about it. I like our neighbors, don’t get me wrong. Always enjoy talking to them, say “hi” in passing, that sort of thing. On the other paw, I’m not big on socialization. Or more to the point, I’m reluctant to socialize, even though I almost always enjoy it.
So when my husband said it would be fun to go, I agreed, and it was pure mischance that the form to RSVP with disappeared until the last possible minute. I swear. I put it on the refrigerator door. I didn’t know that my daughter would play with the magnet and not notice that the paper hit the floor and slid under the fridge, right?
The instigation for the block party was the number of new people in the neighborhood — four new families this summer, and even those of us who’ve been here half a dozen years are relative newcomers. This was fabulous — I wanted to meet at least one of the families, as I knew they have a daughter close in age to our girl’s age, and whenever I’ve stopped by, they haven’t been home.
At the party, the girls were highly non-impressed with each other at first.
They began bonding over potato chips, as they stood at the side-dish table and helped themselves from the serving bowl. Then my daughter wondered why she was sharing, grabbed the bowl, and went to sit down elsewhere.
Later, they met up again by the drinks table, where they were fishing ice chips out of the tub being used to cool bottles. They were so cute the father of the other girl went over to get their picture — and snapped one just as the girls each grabbed a bottle of wine from the tub. It’s a terribly cute photo, and we all agreed that we’re in so much trouble when they get older.
All in all, I’m glad we went. Now I’ve got names to put to those faces when I say hello. And I didn’t even take any notes on characters to use in future stories.