I sat there listening as the classmate’s mom told me how, on the field trip, Big Girl had tried sitting down next to R., who promptly snapped, “I don’t want you sitting next to me!” (Oh, did I mention that R. likes to manipulate my daughter? Being nice sometimes, mean others?) We finished our conversation, the classmate’s mom telling me how, when she saw it happening, she went over and stuck up for Big Girl, telling R. that she wasn’t being nice. I listened but all the while I was distracted. Why didn’t Big Girl tell me about the issue? Why didn’t she trust me? When I thought about it, I figured out why. I’m so sensitized to bullying and people being unkind that I want to jump up and slay every R. who says boo to my daughter.

When I was in grade school and junior high I got picked on. A lot. I used to come home with stories. How this one said that to me, and that one called me something else. How a few of the teachers were even unkind to me. I would come home looking for help, but my mother always told me I needed to deal with what was going on myself. That I needed to stick up for myself. (I can’t blame her. A widow at 35, she had three kids and two jobs. She needed someone to stick up for her, too, but no one was around.) And so I grew to hate school more and more. It got so bad that –because my mom left for work around 7, so we had to get ourselves to school — some days I simply stayed home. I rationalized that it was easier dealing with the yelling at home than dealing with the teasing in school.

But Big Girl isn’t going through what I went through. Not by a long shot. She’s in a great school, and she has plenty of friends. That’s why I know the protecto-mode strategy I often go into isn’t the right one. I know it in my head anyway. Any therapist would say the only way Big Girl is going to learn how to be strong against an obvious bully like R. is to be hurt by her. You can’t learn to avoid pain if you never feel it. And by rescuing Big Girl whenever she’s about to be hurt, I’m preventing good-for-her pain. I am the person I am today not in spite of, but because of those mean kids who tortured me in school. I have a lot of great friends now because I know what a good friend looks like. And trust me, it took me a while to learn. Heck, it even took me a while to learn how to be a good friend because I was so used to being hurt, I often sabotaged relationships.

Unfortunately, knowing all this doesn’t stop me from wanting to gather Big Girl into my arms every morning, and put her into a special bubble. A bubble that protects her against barbs and criticisms, against I-don’t-want-you-to-sit-heres and wow-your-glasses-are-funny-lookings. And the many, many worse things, that as a little girl growing up in today’s world, Big Girl is going to hear. I have to find a happy medium. I have to find a way to help her without smothering her. I have to give her advice without telling her what to do. I have to let her get hurt so she can figure out which girls are the ones she should be friends with, and which ones are the bitches. (Sorry R.’s parents: Your daughter is acting like a bitch. And yes, I am aware how mean it is to call a 6-year-old a bitch.)

That’s why, last night as I tucked her into bed, I told her that I was going to butt out from now on unless she wanted my help. I told her that I wanted to hear about when she got hurt, but I also promised that if she did confide in me, I wouldn’t say anything. I’d just listen. She could trust me and let me be there for her, I said. And then I explained why I was so quick to dismiss people who were unkind to her: Because I love her so much my heart feels like it’s going to explode when I think about her getting hurt. She put her arms around my neck, pulled me close, and kissed my nose. Five times. And then she snuggled down and closed her eyes. And so I am here putting my vows in writing so I have to keep my own promises. As much as it hurts me. I’m going to let her get hurt. (But I don’t promise I’m going to like it.)

Were you ever bullied as a child? Were you a bully? How has it affected who you are as an adult? How has it affected the way you parent? I’d love to hear about your experiences.

At the second (of five) annual playdate Halloween parties. My entry into the fun: The cute flower in the middle.

I’m reading a novel right now, The Summer Kitchen by Karen Weinreb. The book, about a wealthy family’s “loss of wealth and prominence,” contains a description that I really identified with: A section about why some of the smart, talented women of the heroine’s town stopped working once they had children. These women, you see, were in love with playdates.

“Each felt that there was no place in the world she would rather be. These gatherings were addictive that way, and once addicted, there was no way a woman of Bedford would contemplate going back to work and missing all this midweek fun.” This passage touched me because, even though I still worked full-time when my first daughter was born, the bulk of that work was done at night so I could partake in the playdate world. Back then, I worked one entire day — Tuesday — doing all my interviews on that day as well as during naptime, and when my late afternoon sitter came. The mornings and early afternoon, however, were all about mommy time.

I met my core group of mommies at Gymboree. Our babies were between two- and six-months-old. I threw the first playdate, and set up the first schedule. Everyone took a turn, and the group continued to grow, our fun drawing more and more people into our circle. I was in heaven. Yes, the playdates were supposed to be for the babies, but in the beginning we didn’t even pretend that they were. For example, we made lunches a part of our habit before the kids could gum teething biscuits. Meanwhile, the spreads usually contained bagels, pizza, salads, and sweets. (There was a reason I gained a little baby weight not before but after I gave birth!) We hit Nordstroms. We went to White Post Farms. We went to parks and libraries and bagel stores.

While everyone loved the playdates, they were especially important and meaningful for me. Awkward and shy in high school, I didn’t feel comfortable in my skin until college. As a mom, I hit my stride. Meeting and greeting quickly became a favorite activity. I “picked up” wherever I went. We had something going on every single day. So much so that I spent many nights burning the midnight (or more likely the 3 a.m.) oil making up for my fun daytime activities. Today, there are 11 of us who still get together once a month for potluck dinners where we chat and eat. Sort of like our early playdates minus the kids, and plus a couple of bottles of wine.

When I had Keira, my sweet second child, I assumed that I would get another chance at playdates, and yet we seldom do much with other moms. Things have changed. I’m editing a lot more. I’m working a lot more. Much of the work has to be done during the day. I’m needed. I am not complaining. I love what I do, but I worry that Keira is missing out. And I miss what was — those amazing playdates where the babies first crawled and then ran around, and the moms chatted and ate. Facebook makes my transition even more bittersweet because I read about other moms having playdates, and I see the photos. Sometimes I ache inside wondering if I’m making the right decision for me and my daughter. Sure, I still see friends at night, but it’s not the same. Playdates, so innocent, so sweet, bind women together in a way that dance classes or book clubs sometimes don’t. Playdates create a family bond — one that goes on even when the kids are too old to get together anymore.

Today we had Little Gym. (I figure everyone in corporate America takes a lunch break. Mine involves a cute little girl.) After class I overheard two moms discussing the next session. They were talking about signing up together; keeping their girls in the same class. I mustered up my courage and asked which class they were considering. I got even braver, saying I’d like to take the class with them, too. “Our girls are all around the same age,” I explained. After all, it’s always nice to keep your options open.

(Coming tomorrow: Playdate Dos and Don’ts)