“When you’re a happy person, it makes other people mad, if they’re not happy. So they do their best to make sure you’re not happy either. They’ll say mean things. And it’s too bad, because it really does mean that they’re not happy themselves.”

This was the comment I dispensed to Juniper last night. It’s not precise, since I don’t actually wander around internally and obsessively repeating things I’ve said so I can quote myself, but it will give you a general ideal.

The above was my attempt to explain why girls are sometimes mean to each other.

There was a girl like that when I was growing up. She was named after liquor. Were I a bitterer person about my childhood, I might make some wry observation about her conception leading to her name. But I won’t. That would be wrong and I’ve clearly risen above my formative scrapes and bruises.

However, I don’t forget. And neither will Juniper. We will always remember that unpleasant person who went so far out of their way to be unkind. The one who seemed to make it their business to find ways to mock or alienate or in some other way render smaller.

It really does build character, this kind of thing. You learn, over time, to appreciate the freedom that comes with adulthood. You could invest all of your money in Cabbage Patch Kids and their accessories. You can worship Bacchus, if you’re so inclined. You can have an obsession with collecting candlewax drippings from the churches of the world. Any of these things (or all, though you’d probably have a hard time finding your niche in society if that were the case) can be yours.

And you assume that you won’t find any of these children of misery in your adult life.

But when you make babies, you suddenly find them everywhere. A girl I used to know looked me up on Facebook. We commenced to chatting about life and the like. We exchanged one or two e-mails. We talked about her education (she’s a career student, from the looks of things - single, no children) and caught up on stuff.

Then she asked me if I was a stay at home mom. I told her no, I wasn’t. I added then that I actually enjoyed working and liked using my brain.

The conversation stopped abruptly. She has ignored me ever since.

Now, leaving aside the absolute hilarity of a person who doesn’t appear to have taken on a lick of responsibility toward anything in her life (besides school, I suppose) judging me for balancing home, family and work in a way she doesn’t approve of, let’s wonder why anyone would decide that I was dead to them because I had the audacity to *enjoy* work?

Why? As I said to Juniper, I can only conclude that she’s not entirely happy with her choice to avoid the grown up world by remaining a student well into her thirties. And because she’s not happy, she’s got free license to try and ensure that others aren’t happy. Sure, she didn’t send me an e-mail rampaging against the working mothers of the world. But the abrupt silence was message enough.

Happily, she did nothing to break my stride. But I despair of us women, when the advice I give to a seven-year-old girl needs repeating to adults.