Chasing Smiles

I lied. 

Well, lied may be a harsh word to use.  I misrepresented a situation.  I told myself when I started this whole blog-thing I would as honest as I could.  About everything.  Otherwise, what would be the point?  I try to be real.  I like real.

And so from the second I posted Sunday’s post, I’ve felt a bit guilty.  I painted a picture of a sunny day at the park filled with smiles and enjoyment.  To some extent that was true.  Kennedy had a great time.  She was happy.  And deep down I was happy that she was enjoying herself.  But it seemed way deep down. 

I got some tough news that day while I was driving.  I wanted to just turn the car around and go home but I didn’t want to punish Kennedy for my bad mood.  So I drove, with her happily chatting in the back seat, me half-listening.  When we got to park I found myself telling her before we even got out of the car that we weren’t staying long, when I said it was time to go she’d better be a good listener, blah blah blah; a real fun sponge.  I considered just leaving my camera in the car but I figured it would keep me distracted and cover my face to hide any rogue tears that often find their way out of my eyes at inopportune times. 

As we entered the playground, I immediately wanted to leave.  Smiling women everywhere.  I wanted to knock their teeth out.  Seriously.  I found myself wondering what the hell they were so happy about.  Mocking them in my head, trivializing their “happiness”.  I know I sound ridiculous but it’s the truth.  When I feel bad these days, other people smiling seems so out of place in my world.  For a person that used to be so effortlessly empathetic, I struggle to be able to understand the feelings of other people.  Really, who knows if they were actually happy or what their smiles were masking.  But that’s what grief does.  It warps your point of view.  Gives you blinders of sorts. 

So as these women, who, by the way, all seemed to be wearing their perfectly matched running clothes (guess I didn’t get the memo?), smiled and talking about who-knows-what, I tried to focus on the only smile I really care about.  Kennedy does not smile.  Not on command anyway.  If you ask for one, she will either pout at you or offer a cheesy, teeth gritted one that can barely be considered a symbol or fun or happiness (picture what a teenager gives their parents on a family vacation they don’t want to be on- yes, I know we’re in for it).  So, you have to capture it covertly.  I probably looked crazy, running around trying to come around to the slide just as she was coming down.  I chase smiles.  Hers and my own too, I guess.  

I wondered, there and for days after, what I must have looked like to anyone that noticed.  They had to have been wondering what this woman’s problem was: You’re at the park with your happy little girl, try not to look so miserable, lady; smile, enjoy yourself, these moments are over and done with so quickly- you’re going to miss them.  The thing is, to me, it seems likes I wear the Scarlet Letter “G” on my chest.  Sometimes I think it would make it easier if I did.  If people knew maybe they could see my miserable face and understand it.  More than likely, I am over-analyzing the situation, and no one even noticed me, but this is how it goes for me lately.  I think far too much.

Something I also failed to share earlier in the week was the profound moment of awe I felt for my little girl while we were at the park.  She, like most kids, is terrified to walk over drain grates.  She’ll stop in her tracks, yell too loudly, “I’m gonna FALL”, and make you pick her up or walk around it, giving it an extra-wide berth.  It’s understandable really.  As an adult I have a brief moment of panic, what-if-it’s-loose-kind-of-thoughts.  Anyway, as I was still thinking about a million other things, she stopped.  She went through the whole ‘I’m gonna fall thing’ but she just stood there, looking down.  Instead of walking around it, avoiding it, she forged onward.  She walked, ever so slowly, step-by-step, over something that scared the life out her.  She kept looking nervously over at me for encouragement but never stopped.  I watched her, snapping pictures to capture this brave moment of hers.  More than that, I was smiling.  A real, honest-to-God smile.

She showed me something I’m so thankful I didn’t miss.  I was able to get out of my own head long enough for my almost-3 year old to teach me something.  I can’t be afraid.  I can’t “walk around” things or people or avoid them.  It may be scary, but step-by-step, I can do this.