So I was at sea, lost, and in a foul mood when I clacked the large iron knocker at the Ashworth/Brody house. When a frazzled Anna Brody answered the door, she smiled nervously and called out to a crying Sophie, “Honey, they’re here!”

From far off, Sophie let fly with a wail like a World War II air-raid warning.

Anna sighed and said, “I’m sorry, it’s just been one of those days.”

Clearly. Some pudding or jelly had spilled on Anna’s cashmere sweater. Her left cheek was bright red, as if it had been pinched. I mentioned we could come back at a better time.

“No,” Anna said, “please stay.”

Sophie appeared at the bottom of the grand staircase.

Anna knelt down and said, “Come say hello to your new friends.”

“Noooo!” Sophie scrunched her face and grabbed her mother’s hair and started to pull.

Anna held Sophie’s wrist firmly. “She’s never been—this—bad,” Anna said. “Do not pull my hair. You do not pull hair.”

So Sophie started to kick at her mother.

My boys stood in the vestibule, motionless. They were meeting Sophie Brody-Ashworth, and already they were scared.

I had experienced my share of meltdowns, but this was one for the ages: the kind where there was no fixing it, no going back, no making it right.

As her daughter’s tantrum showed no signs of letting up, Anna seemed to shut down. She had no idea what to do next.

But when a flailing Sophie smacked her forehead on the banister, I saw an opening. As a maid ran for ice and Anna tried to comfort Sophie, I played one of Kate’s games—Boo-boo Be Gone—wherein I badly mimed gathering up her pain, packing it into a pretend snowball, and throwing it deep, deep, deep into space. I even included appropriate sound effects. The result was miraculous. Sophie stopped crying and stared at me. Her tear-stained face broke into a big smile.

Anna said, “Wow, you’re good.”

The rest of that first playdate remains a blur. While the boys and Sophie played quietly, I shared with Anna some strategies for dealing with a feisty kid. Time got vague, fuzzy—soon it was dark out and we needed to get home.

This much was clear: That day, in Anna’s mind, I became the Picasso of parents. Funny, I know. But more important, and I didn’t understand this until later, she made me feel like a teacher again.

KATE

THE HEIGHTS CAFÉ WAS PACKED FULL WITH PEOPLE I DIDN’T KNOW. ARRIVING LATE, I looked around until I found him sitting in the corner booth, his back toward the other customers. He held a menu but didn’t appear to be studying it. He hadn’t seen me yet.

I’d come straight from work, stopping at the Starbucks up the street to use their bathroom for a hair/makeup check. Surely I’m not the only one who, when having dinner with an ex-lover, spends an uncommonly long time at the mirror. Part of me found my behavior vain, but a bigger part of me wanted to look my best, as if to say, Fuck you—this is what you missed.