They say that laughter is the best medicine. When a baby laughs, usually it’s enough to dose anyone within earshot. Baby laughs are always genuine, harmless. By the time school-age is reached, not all laughter feels good. The howls and giggles erupting around you when you’re the butt of a joke seem to be the kind of medication that only works selectively and you must just not have the receptor for it. That’s what we do, we take our inability to get the laughter as being a problem with us rather than seeing there is nothing genuine, loving, and healing about laughter at the expense of others.
I love to see people laugh, to hear them. I stopped minding when I embarrass myself just because the smiles and chuckles that follow are enough payoffs for the momentary discomfort that I found myself in. There are times, though, where I wish I could silence the laughter – both in myself and in others. Some moments call to be endured without the aid of medication.
Jello Salad
On my way out to the porch, I walk past my dad whose sitting quietly on the couch. His face is chiseled into a serious expression, lit by the blue light of his phone and intensified by the silence he’s held all day. I wish he didn’t look so tired, so worn down. When he’s not running and busy, he’s so wrapped up in his phone that he hardly seems present.
I wish there was something I could do but I’ve gotten used to seeing him like this and accepted that sometimes you just can’t help when you want to, so with a gentle sigh I grab my bag and walk outside. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch two of my brothers following, everyone with the same idea to go into the meal just as baked as the pies. The funny thing about people, though, is it takes almost no time at all to find yourself just a little over-baked.
When we find ourselves back inside, I beeline to the kitchen, much more giggly than when I had walked out of it a mere 20 minutes ago. Kitchens always feel much more “home” to me than any other part of a house but in this one, it’s because I know that’s where my mom will be. I climb up onto the stool and watch her at work as intently as if twenty years haven’t passed since my ass was small enough to prop up on the counter beside her instead.
The weed helps my focus narrow in and as she cuts the big green giggly square of cabbage and carrot laden jello into small rectangles, I watch the knife slice through parting the jello just long enough for it to pass by before it wiggled back into place. I’m also going to blame the weed for catching patterns and making me think that my life is just like that jello – different ideas are always passing through, trying to pull me off track but I always wiggle right back into my more authentic self after they pass. I knew I liked this jello, even if the crunchiness throws me off sometimes.
By the time my mother announces that she had half of an edible, the topic comes up because it’s kicking in and dinner is not quite done yet but she’s sure she can power through. I kind of like seeing her stoned. She seems so much more relaxed than I remember her and that’s something I want for her – relaxation, and giggles. I can’t help but be at least partly convinced that the weed is to thank for her announcing, carelessly, that we’re just going to have to start dinner without the mac and cheese because it’s still going to be a while.
I start with my son’s plate. Jello salad. He’s been asking for it from the moment it saw it and insisted that I put two pieces on his plate. I put one. When his plate is loaded up and in front of him, his one piece is more than sufficient for the one bite he takes before scrunching his face together and announcing “This jello is really not good.” I glare. “In my opinion.”, he adds. I was hoping the glare would trigger an apology, not further ownership of the distasteful comment.
In moments like these, I try not to overcorrect out of fear that I’ll silence his voice. I want him to stay brave enough to boldly go against the grain and speak about what he has a problem with. Right now, it just so happens to be my mother’s jello salad. So be it, at least he owned it. Somehow this escalates and my over-baked brother is asking why mom even bothers to make it because no one likes it.
My dad is at the end of the table, still serious but less entangled in his phone. “I like it. My Grandma Sue used to make it when I was a kid and now your mom makes it on holidays because she knows it reminds me of that.”, said with a tone calling for an unmedicated moment.
I’m not sure if you’ve ever baked something so long that it explodes but I’m pretty sure that’s what was happening to my brother as his snickers turned to full-blown laughter. I’m also not sure if you’re familiar with a contact high but that’s what this explosion was turning into as the laughter spread to the brother next to him, jumped across the table to my son, and before I knew I was leaking out of me. I swallowed and recomposed myself.
Emotion. I never want to discourage my father from sharing anything emotional. He’s done it enough in his life and I want to savor any bit of vulnerability that he will offer up so I try my damndest to regain my cool. “I like it too”, all I can muster but it counts, right?
I don’t know what was said across the table but the laughter gets louder for a moment before the table subsides into silence interspersed with a handful of giggles. When no one talks, my mom comments in an exaggerated whisper, “wow, it got quiet”. Followed by dad’s “Yeah except these two, laughing. What are you laughing about now?”
All I can do is wonder if the root of this is the kites we’re all riding right now or the inconsistency of the vulnerability in this family.
Much love, until next time.
Madeline May I... 