Losing Sleep Over Regret
You know those regrets that won’t release their talons from your brain. They set in their claws so deeply that, if you try to remove them, you feel like you’ll end up removing part of yourself.
I have one such memory. One that as soon it gets pushed to the recesses of my mind, my long-term memory digs it up to broadcast at 11:27 p.m.—replaying it over and over so I finally fall back asleep curled up in shame.
You don’t have to wonder; I will tell you the story. Before I begin, though, I must let you know that I’m well aware that this is not that bad. You will be tempted to read my anecdote below, scoff, then say, “Seriously, get over it!” But for some reason I can’t, no matter how many times I try to expunge it from my mental record. No matter how often my husband confirms that it was, indeed, not a big deal, I still get squeamish any time I drive near the part of town where it occurred. We all have those moments (big or small) of shame, failure, or embarrassment that we can’t remove from our brain or our identity.
Without further ado, here we go:
A Time for Savoring a Latte
“Due caffe latte, per favore,” my husband requests our normal order to our waitress. We sit across from each other in front of the café, at a metal table set atop uneven cobblestones. I have the perfect view to people watch. Local shopkeepers prepare their stores for the hordes of tourists to descend later. A man on a bike delivers produce to the restaurant behind us (including the biggest lemons I’ve ever seen). Occasionally, luggage wheels click down the cobblestone as a couple like us walks to the train and away from this idyllic, little town.
We unhurriedly sip our espresso and savor croissants for another thirty minutes before we, too, roll our luggage to the train station up the hill.
Learning the Voice of God
“I wan unny capiwah,” my two-year-old son said and looked expectantly at his grandparents. They simultaneously turned their heads to me for translation.
I asked him to repeat what he said, then worked through the jumble of syllables. I thought about what he had been doing that morning, what he could be wanting. Then I asked him, “You want to read The Very Hungry Caterpillar?”
He nodded eagerly, and his grandparents let out a relieved sigh that I had been able to understand my sweet son’s muddled speech.
Forgetfulness: The Opposite of Thanksgiving
“This is the worst day ever!” my five-year-old daughter screamed while large, hot tears fell onto her pink dinner plate. I sighed and looked over at my husband, who shook his head in exasperation.
“What about going to the splash pad with your friends?” I asked her. “Wasn’t that fun?”
She sniffled and gave a slight grunt in agreement.
“And we watched a movie and had popcorn after rest time. Did you enjoy that?”
She nodded her head reluctantly.
“We even had macaroni and cheese for dinner, your favorite.” I reminded her. “You’ve had a wonderful day!”
Worst Nightmares
I’ve never really been into Halloween. Of course, I’ll dress up in coordinating family costumes to receive our fair share of candy from fall festivals. I appreciate the full spectrum of pumpkin-flavored treat (even savory pumpkin-stuffed pasta shells). I take my kids on hayrides, paint pumpkins in the front yard, and buy candy apples no one will be able to bite into.
Still, I skip out on the spooky costumes and haunted houses. I take a different route to my kids’ school to avoid the lawn décor that creep me out. I scroll past the ghost-themed kids' shows on Disney+.
It’s not that I have a moral quandary with the holiday, I just don’t feel the draw to feel more afraid. I have enough fears without adding creepy clowns, howling ghouls, and beguiling witches. I don’t need more nightmares because my worst nightmares are often inside my own head.
The Measure of Our Days
Three women encircle my fifteen-month-old daughter in her nursery. She sits in the middle of them—babbling and grinning at the undivided attention. One woman hands her a block, waiting for her to successfully stack it atop another. When my daughter stands to her feet, a second woman makes a quick succession of check marks on her notepad. A third woman places a farm puzzle before her, pointing to each piece and entreating my daughter to repeat animal noises. I sit behind her, answering their incessant queries and straining my neck to glimpse the scribbles on their clipboards.
Even though this is my daughter’s therapy evaluation, I feel like they are evaluating me. Have I done enough for her in the past year? Advocated for the right medical specialists? Taken her to enough therapy appointments? Given her more of my (already divided) attention?