If anyone ever needs to stay at a hotel in Gothenburg, then Scandic Mölndal is all you need to know. I haven't been here for about two years; not since we moved and I switched districts and eventually jobs. Still when I get here, sweet, lovely Emma is on duty at the front desk. She greets me with the warmest of smiles as though no time has passed, and even though I am no longer a frequent guest, and the hotel is quite full, I still get a corner room with panorama windows.

Tonight I will have the pleasure of dining with one of my former coworkers, who, too, is a good friend, just like in our olden days. He and I will be each other's support group as we together deal with our mutual friend's illness. What I love about P is how open he is to his feelings, but in a masculine way. He is secure enough about himself to not have any qualms about saying what he thinks, and he is one of the few people I know who can openly disagree with someone without ever disrespecting that person.

I wonder if Aron will be waiting tables tonight? He usually manages to have us in stitches. His gift of always seeing the melodrama in things makes the "Jays" from America's Next Top Model to seem like pure macho men in comparison.

My daughter is soon turning ten, and we are rapidly approaching the treacherous "girls, friends, and drama" phase. You know, the one that a quarter of a century later still makes my stomach turn and skin crawl.

Yesterday at the school disco, what started out as a fun evening, so much that we moved pick-up time an hour forward, ended with tears and humiliation. All for the littlest thing: a friend, a supposedly "best" friend, whispered something to three other schoolmates, but refused to let my daughter in on the fun. And none of the others revealed what was said either.

Did my daughter play any part leading to these events? No idea. But her hurt was palpable. We live in a small village, and my daughter is in a small class with very few girls. I'm hoping to instill in her more self-esteem than I had at that period of my life, but, like me, she is so afraid of doing something wrong, something that could lead to rejection, that she would rather sit in her room and draw instead of calling someone. It's not about being lazy, it's about being certain. If someone calls then you know they want to see you.

So far I am grateful that she is open enough to confide in me and my husband the intrigues of her third grade class. I hope I find a way to help her deal with the pain (since I know I can't prevent it) in a way that will eventually stregthen her. Her "real" best friend lives an hour away. I keep my fingers crossed that some other girl might cross her path, so that they can help each other through the tough years to come.