At least I could do that.

Last weekend our new neighborhood threw a block party. Barricades blocked both ends of the street in front of our house, and by 5:00 kids were running everywhere. The only problem was that they weren't running with Charlotte.

Not only is she the new girl on the block, at three years old, Charlotte's the youngest of the kids moving around on two feet. The gal closest to her age is almost six, and she and some other seven-year-olds were too busy walking behind some high school girls to give Char a second glance. In fact, everyone was too busy to play with Char.

I get it; I really do. I understand why those bigger kids told Charlotte they didn't want her playing tackle volleyball. She's too little. She also doesn't have the balance to glide down the hill on a Micro scooter, or the motor skills to steer a Power Wheel plastic Jeep. She doesn't understand the impromptu rules of kickball en mass, or how cliques work. She will, soon enough, but on Saturday night, Charlotte wanted to pretend she's a kitty and have a tea party with some imaginary bears. And sadly, no bears came calling.

All day long Char had been telling us, "I can't wait for the party tonight!" but by 6:00 she was standing alone in the street sobbing, "No one will play with me!" And she was right; no one would play with her.

I watched her move from group to group soliciting playmates, and each time she was answered with a "No", a shirt turned to show its back, or a pair of cruel shoes running away.

I can wipe away tears, fix broken toys, and tape torn book pages. But I can't make the other kids like my daughter, and a simple repairman is helpless against a broken heart.

I rescued her from the middle of the street, and we both went into our house to regroup. Since I've never been good at consoling a crying girl, I did what I could. I made Charlotte a snack plate, and we watched TV on the couch together.

After twenty minutes, Char was willing to give the party another try. This time she decided she needed something to set herself apart. She needed something that would get the other kids to abandon their big wheels and sidewalk chalk and come running. She needed... her Scooby Doo umbrella.

Oh. Crap.

I tried to explain to Char that the other kids might not be too impressed with her umbrella, but she was sure she had found a lightening rod for friendship. After losing a brief tug of war in the garage, I hesitantly escorted my little Gene Kelly to go singing in the pain. I have to give her an E for effort, but as I suspected, no one else was excited that Char had learned how to open and close her pink parasol. One boy started to cry for his mom because Charlotte kept following him around trying to hold it over his head.

Just when I was sure that all was lost, the sun went down, and the unlit backyards began to empty their multitudes back into the street. The high schoolers took off in their real cars, and with no one left to show off to, the kids became kids again, and Char was allowed to hold hands with a group who went running up the sidewalk towards a neighbor's trampoline.

Through the darkness I watched her silhouette fall, bounce, slip, and rebound on the tramp while her distinctive giggle ricocheted over my head.

Later, when no one was looking, I ran her forgotten umbrella into the garage and hid it on a high shelf.