I grew up over almost 400 miles from where my husband and I settled, and this means I never see anyone from my hometown.  Other than my parents, who seem to think court orders are no big deal (just kidding, Mom!).  Actually, my friends from my hometown escaped, never to look back...Another sad tale of towns with a poor economy, so the young leave.  Or stay and become government employees.  Or potheads, though my crowd didn’t run that way.

I have been wondering about my childhood best friend.  One of two, actually.  When I was young, her parents got a divorce, so I have vivid memories of holing up in her powder room prepping for the divorce hearing.  She was supposed to talk about which parent she wanted to live with, from what I recall, so we roleplayed.  She sat on the toilet to testify, and I was Judge Wapner.  How divorce court really was, I have no clue, but this was my dearest friend, and her parents split very early in our childhood. 

After the divorce, her mom relocated to my current town, and I’d see Jennie on school holidays and summer break.  During the summer, we were inseparable, and I think I spent just as many nights at her house as I did my own.  In the school year, we wrote letters that I’m sure were trite and lame beyond belief...involving our made-up world of stuffed animals based on Snoopy, Belle, and characters of our own making.  Time passed, and after she graduated from high school, we lost touch.  Her dad moved, and with it, my ability to find her again. 

Then I met a boy from her town.  He asked me to marry him, and I said yes.  From our second date, I remember wondering if I’d ever run into Jennie again.  Would I recognize her?  Would her platinum blond hair have darkened into a light brown? 

Once, this Fall I believe, I received a mass mailing from her mother, a woman I only knew as a CPA named M---.  I used the e-mail to write a note asking if she was Jennie’s mom and that I was trying to locate her.  No dice. 

On Thursday, however, my principal dragged me to an event at Maddie’s pre-school.  She’d lovingly brainwashed my daughter to want to attend an early Cinco de Mayo celebration (a more technically accurate, Uno de Mayo, or is it Premiere de Mayo?  I have no idea.) As I stood in line for the most amazing authentic tacos ever, a little East Indian boy fell over and hit his head on the play structure, so I went to pick him up and reunite him with his father, who stood about 30 feet away.  I noticed that new people had stepped into my spot in line, but I decided to just get on the end and not deal with it.

Then I saw her.  Jennie.  Standing in line, waiting for tacos at the Uno de Mayo fiesta.  Near her stood an adorable little girl.

“Mari?” she said.

“Jennie?”

“Oh my God.”

“Who’s this adorable girl?”

“Oh,” she said nonchalantly, “This is my daughter Maddie.  She’s three.”

It was then that I started to laugh, and as she glanced at me with a perplexed look on her face, I told my childhood friend, “That’s my Maddie over there.  She’s three, too.”

All year long, I’ve been hearing about “The OTHER Maddie”.  Even my daughter talks about her, and a co-worker tells me her son calls my Maddie, “White-haired Maddie,” while the other one is “Black-Haired Maddie.” I ignored most of it, because, who cares?

But it turns out that for almost a year, our children have been playing together, all the while, the two moms oblivious to the connection that spans back more than 30 years. 

All I can say is, the world has a funny way of bringing people in and out of our lives, and I’m grateful that our daughters brought us back together.