“You didn’t talk until you were two,” my mother shared for the zillionth time. I’d heard this story since I was a little girl and it hadn’t aged well. When I was an adult, I had a question.
“Mom, weren’t you worried I had an intellectual disability?”
“Oh, no. I’d hear you practicing in your room.”
What child under two years old practices in private? My experience with toddlers is they love showing off any new skill.
Why was I silent?
My mother’s story hadn’t finished.
“As your dad and I left for a weekend in Las Vegas, you were saying a few words. Two days later, you greeted us at the door speaking in full sentences.” Mom never shared what I said.
I imagine myself saying, “Hello, Mommy. Hello, Daddy. I trust you had a good weekend.”
Mom always finished her story by adding, “And you’ve never stopped talking since.”
Thanks for the shame, Mom. I’m sure that wasn’t her intention, but it was the result.
Whether shamed or not, it didn’t stop me from talking. And then I went into therapy in my early twenties and my therapist told me I was a compulsive talker, done because I was uncomfortable and couldn’t tolerate silence.
Well, shut my mouth!
I no longer believe I talk too much. I tend to listen more than talk, although that’s not always true with Bob, my husband. If I didn’t talk, our life together would often be like living at a silent retreat in an ashram.
I listen more than talk when I’m in social situations. It’s easier and the skills I learned while training to work with dying and grieving people have served me well. I learn a lot about the person I’m with, and since most people don’t ask questions, I remain anonymous.
I confess I talk a lot when I’m stressed. The first time an ambulance whisked Bob from our home, words spewed from my mouth, along with jokes, as our friend drove me to the hospital. The words and jokes continued while we waited to learn Bob survived the emergency surgery.
My friend, Samantha, can testify I talk nonstop and make jokes when I’m nervous. Just ask her about the time she accompanied me to the mortuary to select the urn for my beloved stepson Doug’s cremains. I was my own joke-a-thon. I don’t know that I was funny, but we did laugh at my off-color jokes when we viewed urns that looked like books and I said, “Well, Doug always wanted to be a writer.” Or the other urn that looked like a breeze would knock it over and I said, “Oops, get the vacuum,” as I imagined him dust on the carpet. Sick jokes, but they got me through the trauma of the morning.
Fortunately, Samantha is a kind person who understood and went along with whatever I needed to say and do. Everyone should have a Samantha with them when they’re going through the worst.
I’ve lived long enough to realize it’s okay that I talk a lot when I’m nervous. Lots of people do. But not my husband who claims, “I don’t talk a lot because I’m never nervous.”
Ha! I love this! It’s especially funny to me knowing Bob so well. I imagine the conversations between Bob & Tim are easily transcribable in longhand! 😄
You do know I live in that ashram…😉
Ah! I love this 😅😘