My husband and I come from different worlds. He grew up in the South. Where people speak to each other. I grew up in the North. Where people are suspicious of each other.

His mother was a Detroiter transplanted in California, then Arkansas. My mother was a Clevelander transplanted to Chicago. A brief stay in Nashville was enough to prove to her that she never wanted to live in the South again. We’ve been in this sleepy Michigan town since 1975.

My husband was raised to speak to people, to identify himself on the phone, to look people in the eyes.

I was raised to look past people, only speak after having been spoken to, and whatever you do, for the love of God, never identify yourself on the telephone.

Both of us had that latch-key thing going on, where we were home alone a lot, and under no circumstances to have any friends over when our parents were not.

It makes for some culture shock in raising children the way we have chosen to.

For example, I am home most of the day. The little boy across the street has come to count on that, and he comes over to play with our youngest son daily. All of the other children are free to invite friends over whenever they want.

It feels weird to me to have other peoples’ children in the house. I still feel like I’m breaking my mother’s rules sometimes.

My middle daughters have been telling me for weeks that there’s a little girl in gymnastics class that is friends with our next door neighbor. They’ve also told me that she has a little brother in their little brother’s gymnastics class. It was mythology to me. I thought I’d eventually look into it if I had a chance. . .

On Sunday, I was out raking leaves and noticed my next door neighbor was also raking leaves. She had company.

I had kicked the neighbor boy and my son out of the house since I couldn’t watch them inside and rake at the same time. My son told me he’d said hi to the little boy next door. I didn’t think anything of it. The boy in gymnastics and our 3 year old neighbor have the same name.

Then, as I jumped in the car to go pick up the middle girls at ballet, I saw the family visiting next door and it clicked! That was the mythical Tuesday gymnastics family! I ignored all my home training and asked the woman if her son had gymnastics on Tuesday. Yes, indeed he did. She came over and recognized my son from class and was so happy to see another 5 year old in the class–most of the boys in the class are older, and when she heard that her daughter was in class with one of my daughters, she was ready to talk play dates.

We planned to talk tonight at gymnastics. But then I got hit with hellish fall schedule. I was running hither and yon picking up and dropping off people throughout gymnastics. During one of those runs, I ran into gymnastics looking for the woman. I had a favor to beg.

I had to take my older son to basketball practice while two children were in gymnastics. I knew my daughter would be finished before I could return. I asked my other daughter if the mother was there. She said no, but the children’s father was there.

Again, I ignored my home training and introduced myself, identifying the neighbor we both know, and asked him if he could keep an eye on my daughter while I ran my errand. He kindly complied.

I ran my errand, wondering the whole time if I’d done the right thing. I mean, I didn’t know these people. . .

I got back and everything was fine. I still had 10 minutes before my son was done with gymnastics; plenty of time to take care of bills and costume fittings for my other gymnast.

I was thinking it’s time to throw out those old social maps I’d been storing away, just in case we ever moved to that big city again. . .