I don’t think my mom knew what she was getting into as she lowered herself into the hot tub with me and my three youngest girls the other day.
Over the last year the hot tub has been more of a conference room than just bubbling, hot water.
It’s where we’ve gone to discuss our thoughts on the day, where we’ve made plans for all the things we’d do once Covid was over, where I’ve wiped many tears away,
where we’ve leaned our heads back and looked up at the stars and felt grateful for the way the expanse of the black sky, even for just awhile, made everything else feel small.
Immediately the girls were all talking at once, like they’d been activated by the water.
Like every minute, passing thought just had to get out,
and after several minutes of their wide, excited eyes and big hand gestures,
talking without ceasing, my mom’s eyes grew as big as theirs,
and she looked at me, slightly stunned, and commented,
“Whoa. How do you handle so many words?”
I smiled.
“That’s how it’s done here. Everyone just talks at once.”
Then a laugh and something that felt more like a family motto,
“We just like to make sure nothing gets left unsaid.”
For some reason, at that moment, I flashed to the day I first moved out;
My very first place in the next town felt so exciting, but the moving, itself, sombering.
My late teen years had produced struggle, but in my family we did
silence more than shout.
My dad had come home from work as a realtor to help me take apart and load up my bed frame.
Never one to dive into many feelings, I remember seeing him come in the door, simply nod at me, and head to do what he needed to do so I could be on my way.
I stood in the corner and watched him taking apart the frame, still in his suit,
and thought it fitting he’d be dressed for business on that day.
It was like I could feel all the words he wasn’t saying just hanging in the room.
He loved me.
He was going to miss me.
He didn’t know just what to say.
Maybe he was sorry for how mad he’d gotten when I’d wrecked his truck in the culvert.
Maybe he wished for just one more day…
But, instead of saying much of anything, he simply loaded up my car,
and with a shaky voice, he said,
“Don’t forget to call your mother. She’s having a real hard time.”
His smile kind of wobbled. He hugged me,
and then I watched him walk away.
I remember when the girls were small and would get frustrated at something,
I’d gently remind them to “use their words,” hoping to give them the tools they’d need to make it through any struggles in their coming days.
I have fought to give them the tools they’d need to identify the feelings inside of them.
Are you frustrated?
Angry? Hurt?
Feel too on display?
Words, so powerful, and transformative;
Meant to be carefully given away.
I thought about all of the Covid families unable to say their goodbyes to loved ones dying on vents this last year, unable to hold the hands that had maybe soothed their brow, helped tie their shoes, or guided them some way.
To say their “I love you’s” in person.
To say, well…EVERYTHING.
All those unsaid words…
I thought about regret.
About the pit in your chest because of it that never really goes away, and how I will fight as long as I live to teach my children to always say the words.
If you’re thinking of someone, write to them.
If you see beauty in someone, say it.
If you regret something you said or did or thought before knowing, tell someone the truth.
I tell them all the time,
you will be surprised at how much it frees you.
I contemplated that moment in the hot tub,
such an innocent, passing comment from my mom having her ear talked off,
and I thought about each of my girls;
About all the things they each had been though,
and the way we’d all processed this last year mostly through talk.
We’ve talked about grief we’ve felt at missing our people.
We’ve talked through sibling fights, and hurt feelings.
We’ve talked about things like character, and perseverance in the face of what has often felt impossible.
We’ve talked late into so many nights,
and those talks have been what has kept us going when sometimes we’ve felt right on the edge of the abyss,
and I am so proud of us for this.
I feel proud that we have looked so many difficult things square in the eye,
and we didn’t shrink back, or clam up, or run away.
We stayed.
We felt it all,
And we used our words.
This article was written by a guest blogger. The opinions expressed here are those of the writer and do not reflect the opinions of Bob Lacey, Sheri Lynch or the Bob & Sheri show.
Mom Outnumbered
Hi! My name is Kerri Green; Wife to Justin, and mother to four highly entertaining daughters -Alena, Chloe, Tessa, and Paige. I am an artist, a writer, a daycare provider, a lover of people, a believer that there is humor and beauty in all things, and the author of Mom Outnumbered; a blog about real family life, and my observations of it. My goal is to make people laugh, to be there for them when they cry, and most importantly, to let them know that they are not at all alone in this up and down world. I live with my family in Sebastopol California, and I am opening the window into our life. So welcome! Come in. Sit down. Just please don’t mind the mysterious wet spots.
