a true story about big feelings
Everyone Was Laughing Except Her
The whole table laughs at what she just said. She slides off her chair and disappears under the tablecloth.
the realization
I kept telling her nobody was laughing at her, like the right explanation would fix it. It didn't. She needed me to say the one thing that was actually true for her: she wasn't joking. She meant it.
She said it dead serious, that thing three-year-olds say with total confidence, and the whole table cracked up. Aunts, grandma, my husband. Me too, I'll be honest. It was funny. And then I looked over and her chair was empty.
have you ever felt this way too?
She was under the table. Just the tablecloth moving a little. I did the thing every parent does, I started explaining. Nobody's laughing AT you, sweetheart, it was funny, come on, don't be silly, come back up. The more I explained, the tighter she curled into herself down there.
So I stopped talking and got down on the rug. Crawled under with her, which is not dignified at forty-one in a dress. It was dark and warm and smelled like carpet. I didn't rush her. That was a lot of faces looking at you, I said. You weren't being funny. You meant it. She let out one long breath, the kind that comes out of her whole body.
I asked if she wanted to go up now or sit here one more minute. She sat for about four seconds and then climbed back up on her own. Then the next laugh went around the table, and I didn't join in. I looked at her instead.
what I found myself saying
""That was a lot of faces looking at you.""
""You weren't being funny. You meant it.""
""Do you want to go up now, or sit here one more minute?""
