Clare La Plante with her son, Martin.

On Thursday afternoons, I would enter the church, a whitewashed brick building, from the side entrance. The pastor had turned the entire basement into a playroom with colorful mats and balls and playpens, bins and bins of toys, and a fully stocked kitchen with high chairs and changing station. This is great, I thought, as I took in the sea of moms scattered about, kneeling and sitting on the floor, each following or holding a young child.

I was late coming into the mom’s group thing — my son was already about a year and a half old — but then I was late to the mother thing. I had my first child at 43. And now I was desperate to meet other mothers after a long winter of living in cold and lonely lockdown.

My old friends were still around — they were just . . . well, you know, busy — as I had been just several years before. Now, life had slowed to a crawl, and the silence was deafening, even amid the cries and wails of my little boy.

And so into this room I went, where 15 or so women seemed to be always talking to each other, sharing stories of their recent activities, and making plans for their moms’ nights out: comedy clubs, chocolate-fondue bars, and in-home bookclubs. And all I wanted to do was to look into another mother’s eyes and say, “How do you do it?”

Then I realized that I was 20 years older than they were. I didn’t have the courage to tell the other mothers the truth: that I was really tired, that I envied their youth, their children’s young grandparents, and the whole resiliency of that room. That I needed a friend.

That I wanted someone to ask me, “How do you do it?” so I could say in reply, “I’m not sure that I do.”

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	Amber Leberman

Maybe you’ve had the same best friend your entire life. Maybe you met in elementary school and have been friends ever since. Maybe, despite all the changes you’ve both endured — different careers, marriage, children — you’re still as close as you ever were.

Or maybe you’re like me and have had a different best friend for every stage of life. In elementary school it was Jennifer. We were close, despite the fact that we tormented each other the way grade school girls sometimes do. In junior high it was Heather, who was a great companion through those early adolescent years of budding talent, first crushes, and family tragedies. In high school, it was Julia, with whom I shared an interest in combat boots, The Smiths and self-indulgent poetry.

In college my best friends were David, Kathy, and Kathryn. We all lived in the same dormitory and were out-of-staters at a university where many students went home on the weekends. We quickly bonded when we found ourselves left on campus. Soon we were doing community service projects together, piling into Kathy’s pickup truck for trips to the discount store, and going out for Sunday dinner. Kathryn and I would discuss Christianity and sports. David and Kathy became each others’ default dates for fraternity and sorority parties. We went to each others’ homes, in Arkansas, California and New York, for vacations.

Of those college friends, I’ve remained close with David and Kathy. Despite living thousands of miles apart, we still share the most important moments in each others’ lives. Last year, I attended David’s 30th birthday cruise and Kathy’s wedding. We make it a point to vacation together once a year.

But I’ve fallen away from my friendship with Kathryn. The telephone calls got gradually shorter and less frequent. The promises to visit went unfulfilled. There was no real reason for the split — no good reason, at least. We didn’t have a fight or a disagreement. It just stopped being a friendship.

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	Eleanor and Rebecca.

When I was 28, I had just moved to a new town when I met Eleanor, a retired widow in her late 70s, at a faith circle in my new church. We immediately became friends.

We are kindred spirits, and when we talk it seems like the 46-year difference in our ages evaporates.

Eleanor is funny, frank, optimistic, and practical. She likes to talk as much as I do and she can tell a good story. I have also found that she helps me put things in perspective — she has years and experience that I, my friends, and even my parents don't have. She has become my extended family.

My friends who have moved away from home seem to miss what extended family often gives — the time, help, caring, and perspective of people who aren't necessarily in your age or peer group. We hear their stories, get their council, and see them in action. We can learn a lot from them. Those of us who don't live close to our families often crave that sense of family.

Sometimes we miss it more than we know.

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