Have you ever paid attention to the people in your life without the leading roles? The people who you see on a somewhat regular basis, but don’t really know. Maybe you see them at pickup, the grocery store, or the post office. They’re the ones you make up stories about in your head. Sometimes I think my surrounding cast is just as important as the lead characters in my life. They add a sense of stability, without adding drama. And it always feels good to recognize someone.
The first time Ama stopped me while I paged through my journal to find a quote I wanted to share, I was surprised. I was pretty confident this would be a therapist-gold quote. Like, she’d hear it and think, “Ah, yes, Laura is so smart. She’s my favorite patient.” Instead, before even hearing the quote, she said, “You’re quoting other people’s stories.” She paused. I glared at her. “What’s your story, Lau-ra?” She asked, emphasizing the last syllable of my name in her beautiful lilt of an accent.
I’m approaching the one-year anniversary of when I began working with a trauma therapist. The first day I sat on her suck-you-in kind of couch, I wore a bright green dress and rainbow earrings. I perched myself on the edge of the couch with my arms and legs tightly crossed, determined not to be sucked into the abyss.
Maybe you trusted I had the skills to untangle the wires of your beloved slinky, or the know-how to coax the piece-of-shiitake plastic back to its original form. I like to think I was your last hope. But more likely, it ended up on the counter because I asked you to clear the table, and we both know that “clearing the table” is synonymous in your brain with, “take my beach shovel and take loads over to the counter.”
“What are you going to do for yourself today?” my therapist asked. “I’m gonna grab a chai tea latte on my way home,” I replied, already calculating how I’d Tetris my day together for maximal productivity. Though I’ve spent a lot of time working on not labeling things as black and white, good or bad, or success or failure, it remains a challenge. I still proceed through my days giving myself green check marks when my day meets my expectations, or red x’s when my plans derail.
Since moving to Florida, we instituted the tradition of road trips to the Smoky Mountains each fall. A week or two in the mountains gives my soul the autumn weather it craves, unavailable in always-sunny Florida. It’s a 14-hour drive, which we usually break up into two chunks on the way there, and do in one, long-ass, straight shot on the way back.
When the girls were babies, I kept a notebook for each of them, and I’d write down memories and funny stories. Each year, on their birthday, I’d write them a flowery love note. This lasted approximately 2 years. Then, I started keeping a note on my phone with their best quotes. It was a way to not only track their growth, but also a reminder to me as their mom that little humans can be just as wise (if not wiser) than adults. I present to you, Alice Jane, in her own words:
Every summer, I hit a point where I no longer enjoy the flexibility of a school-free schedule. Some may call this point rock-bottom, others may call it losing-your-sh*t. And it is in this moment, every summer, that I declare in my brain, “It is time to return to school.”
When my sister texted me a YouTube clip entitled ” ‘Regular’ Mom SHOCKS World with her Dance Moves,” I expected to watch a Napoleon Dynamite-esque dance. Instead, I watched as 36-year-old Erica Coffelt showcased impressive hip-hop dance moves (self-taught, by the way), earning a standing ovation at the end of her performance. I smiled wide throughout her dance, floored by her creativity and courage. She exuberated the kind of joy we encourage in kids; the kind we forget we are capable of having as adults.
Dear Family,
I’ve been reading about how playing games together can promote a sense of love among family members. Since we all know this is BS, I’d like to invite you to my place so we can bond over our disagreement on the rules.
Avery took a Bushcraft class this spring. Each Saturday morning, we showed up at a nature preserve, where Mrs. Becky taught a group of 5-9-year-olds survival skills.
As the sun dipped low in the sky, our mom called us in from the backyard, where we were submerged in the world of imaginary play. If it was summer, the chirp of crickets filled the air, signaling that night had arrived. If it was winter, we unlaced our skates, quickly putting on our boots before freezing air stung our toes.
I’m just going to go ahead and admit that I like birthdays almost as much as I did when I was five. Maybe more, now that they can include margaritas.
We found ourselves surrounded by lush shades of green, the silence of a dirt path under our feet, and a view backlit by rays of the setting sun, flooding through the tree branches. The path we hiked started out as a typical Florida hike: flat land running along a river, mangrove trees with their roots dipping into the water, signs warning of alligators, and the forest floor covered in greenery, teeming with life.
Christmas, to me, is a holiday that fully involves the senses. The sound of jingle bells and Christmas music, the smell of pine trees, the taste of gingerbread, the prickly branches of the Christmas tree and the sharp pointy end of a candy cane when savored slowly, and how if you squint your eyes just right, the Christmas lights look like stars. Maybe this is why it is such a nostalgic holiday; it has so many pathways to bring back memories.
The question caught me off guard. I fumbled through my answer, the same way I fumbled the first time she asked me how babies get out of tummies.
I stepped out of the car, inhaled the fresh mountain air, and experienced the tingly joy of the crisp molecules filling each tiny alveoli in my lungs. I surveyed the autumn colors on the trees surrounding the cabin and I heard the unexpectedly loud roar of the water from the creek behind the cabin.
It was a cloudy January afternoon. I shivered on my walk to the coffee shop, but not because it was cold. The nerves of a first date are the worst.
My sister just had her first baby; and so, I feel the sisterly need to share a little wisdom.
When I was pregnant with Avery, I was bombarded with information from other parents, wanna be parents, and non-parents who believed they were experts anyway.
We did just fine without our “stuff”. Thrived, actually. But the moment I saw our boxes, I couldn’t wait to rip them open and soak in the presence of inanimate objects.
I’m writing this from a new bedroom, on a new bed, in a new house. Everything smells new; and for the moment, life feels foreign.
I remember snipets. It was a cold day. I think there was snow. I hadn’t been feeling quite right. I figured I was fatigued or had a bug. But just to be sure, I stopped at a CVS to pick up a pregnancy test. It was three weeks after Chad and I married and barely a week since we had returned from our honeymoon.
I took in the view of the Minneapolis skyline and felt a heaviness in my chest that I didn’t anticipate.
©2023 · Laura Onstot