Kindergarten Friendship Quotes

It is a healthy approach not to expect persons to turn out precisely how you would have wished.

Depressing thought: my friends were the girls I ate lunch with, all buddies from kindergarten who knew one another so well we weren't sure if we even liked one another anymore.

Lisa's friendship was less of a choice than a fact of life. It worked out well - kind of symbiotic, actually. I beat up anyone who messed with her, and she made sure my homework got done. Fair trade, right? Honestly, if not for Lisa's constant nagging, I'd probably still be crouched in our kindergarten sandbox eating glue and playing Neferet demons.

Do you remember the first day that we met? It was- it was the first day of kindergarten. I knew nobody. I had no friends, and I just felt so alone and so scared…but I saw you on the swings, and you were alone, too. And I just walked up to you, and I asked. I asked if you wanted to be my friend. And you said yes. You said yes. It was the best thing I’ve ever done.

The problem with adulthood was feeling like everything came with a timer—a dinner date with Sam was at most two hours, with other friends, probably not even as long. There was maybe waiting for a table, there was a night at a bar, there was a party that went late, but even that was just a few hours of actual time spent. Most of Alice’s friendships now felt like they were virtual, like the pen pals of her youth. It was so easy to go years without seeing someone in person, to keep up to date just through the pictures they posted of their dog or their baby or their lunch. There was never this—a day spent floating from one thing to another. This was how Alice imagined marriage, and family—always having someone to float through the day with, someone with whom it didn’t take three emails and six texts and a last-minute reservation change to see one another. Everyone had it when they were kids, but only the truly gifted held on to it in adulthood. People with siblings usually had a leg up, but not always. There were two boys from Belvedere, best friends since kindergarten, who had grown up and married a pair of sisters, and now all four of their children went to Belvedere, driven by one mom or the other in a little cousin carpool. That was next-level friendship—locking someone in through marriage. It seemed positively medieval, like when you realized that all the royal families in the world were more or less cousins. Even just the concept of cousins felt like bragging—Look at all these people who belong to me. Alice had never felt like she belonged to anyone—or like anyone belonged to her—except for Leonard.

I built, of blocks, a town three hundred thousand strong, whose avenues were paved with a wine-colored rug and decorated by large leaves outlined inappropriately in orange, and on this leafage I'd often park my Tootsie Toy trucks, as if on pads of camouflage, waiting their deployment against catastrophes which included alien invasions, internal treachery, and world war. It was always my intention, and my conceit, to use up, in the town's construction, every toy I possessed: my electronic train, of course, the Lincoln Logs, old kindergarten blocks—their deeply incised letters always a problem—the Erector set, every lead soldier that would stand (broken ones were sent to the hospital), my impressive array of cars, motorcycles, tanks, and trucks—some with trailers, some transporting gas, some tows, some dumps—and my squadrons of planes, my fleet of ships, my big and little guns, an undersized group of parachute people (looking as if one should always imagine them high in the sky, hanging from threads), my silversided submarines, along with assorted RR signs, poles bearing flags, prefab houses with faces pasted in their windows, small boxes of a dozen variously useful kinds, strips of blue cloth for streams and rivers, and glass jars for town water towers, or, in a pinch, jails. In time, the armies, the citizens, even the streets would divide: loyalties, friendships, certainties, would be undermined, the city would be shaken by strife; and marbles would rain down from formerly friendly planes, steeples would topple onto cars, and shellfire would soon throw aggie holes through homes, soldiers would die accompanied by my groans, and ragged bands of refugees would flee toward mountain caves and other chairs and tables.

Madeline." "Yes, Steve." "I love you. I've always loved you. I've loved you since kindergarten. I loved you when I married someone else and every day after that. There's only ever been you." More emotions flooding through my body - this time a love that I took for granted, the deep abiding friendship of a person you've known all your life, a new desire, one that's healthy and strong and rooted in respect for self and other. "You're my best friend," I whisper, with a smile. "And so much more. I love you." And then his lips are on mine, the scruff of his beard, the strength of his arms. Since Evan, I've been in this tight cocoon, not allowing myself to feel, not trusting myself to move on. Now, finally, I'm free. And then we hear applause, and everyone is crowding into the kitchen. "Oh, my god," says Miranda. "It's about damn time." I feel heat come up on my cheeks, my scar burning. Even Badger blushes as everyone piles into the kitchen, laughing and clinking glasses. The kitchen is the heart of the house. Family is the soul. And love is the foundation.

I've gone to school with the same kids since kindergarten. And they knew what I was long before I did. I was uncool by FOURTH GRADE. How is it even possible to be an uncool fourth grader? Didn't we all just string together friendship bracelets and daydream about horses and pretend to solve mysteries back then?

Reed: "I owe you big-time, Ronnie." Ronnie: "You've been my best friend since kindergarten, Reed. I owe you big-time." That's the kind of friend she is.

For Christie. Thank you for a lifetime of friendship and love, and for the endless hours you’ve spent talking with me about my stories. I finally forgive you for leaving me to find my own way home after my first day of kindergarten at a new school.

In preschool we remain largely free from prejudice and associate with anyone who crosses our path – giving them the opportunity to impress us with their personality traits and skills before passing judgment on them in the ultimate sense: deciding whether to befriend them.

I think after she tore it up, Sunny thought the song was lost for good. But some things are forever . . . like the story about that time in kindergarten when you got caught eating a glue stick . . . or that permanent marker stain you accidentally put on your teacher’s dry-erase board . . . or your red-haired best friend and the lyrics she inspired.