Meredith’s Musings | Our Universal Language

Article By Meredith Mckinnie

My childhood memories are a random montage of moments – notably, hugs, smiles, and laughter – the roots of positive communication. If we did anything well in my family, we certainly found any available humor. Laughter was, and still is, our universal language. Mom typically led those chains of laughter, always the first to determine a moment worthy. Mom instinctually knew how and when to lighten interactions or redirect conflict. She navigates social situations seamlessly, often determining their length, depth, and interpretation.

I notice my inclination toward this ethos of communication in my own home. If we have a cornerstone of interaction, it’s me. I set the tone, and everyone responds accordingly. I’m not exactly proud of this, as I don’t think being the arbiter of tone should fall to one individual, better that it flows naturally among inhabitants. If I shared my mother’s instinct for lightness, perhaps this would create a positive environment, but I lean more toward seriousness, no doubt a byproduct of the weight of parenting. The mental load of managing a household is antithetical to lightness, but I long for it nonetheless.

I don’t assume that my mother didn’t carry a similar mental load, even if her generation didn’t possess the language to name it. Constantly in ten places at once, often alone when Dad worked out of town, working 40 hours a week while mothering 24/7, whatever the weight, she carried it well. I don’t recall her seeming overly stressed or lashing out often – her spurts of anger were always justified. We all challenged her instinct to keep the environment light and easy. I wonder if she feels that she carried the mental weight well, because I don’t believe that I do.

I’m not one to indulge self-guilt or self-blame, but I do lean into self-reflection, as I believe it’s synonymous with growth. I find myself assessing my actions even as I act out, as if watching an exchange from above. I see the disappointment on my daughters’ faces when they can sense my tension. I find it hard to fake okay-ness, and I’m not sure I’m supposed to. I don’t want my daughters walking into motherhood blind, but I don’t want to scare them away from the experience either. I desire for them the self-determination to make their own choices with the clear insights gained from their personal experiences. I can tell them about the mental load, to honestly share my frustrations, but it’s my actions they will remember. I want their montage to be a collection of positive moments, yet an honest collection. And perhaps I have little to do with their interpretations at all. Maybe I’m just overthinking about control again, analyzing my parenting to death.

When I picture Husband’s face, his mouth is stretched into his signature Cheshire cat grin, his eyes disappearing in the minor folds of his face. He brings the lightness into our household; he’s the arbiter of humor. If I make a joke, it’s typically a sharp-edged one-up, emphasizing a prior point. And yet, when I do engage in play, when I make fun of myself or dance around the room, the girls light up. Their response to my spontaneity demonstrates an otherwise glaring absence. They expect play from dad; they expect order from me. I long to relocate my fun gene, to yank it back out of retirement, to introduce child Meredith to parent Meredith. I want to ditch the structure of parenting without the parental experiment collapsing. I want my girls to not take themselves too seriously while still knowing when to be serious.

If I had to choose a word for this year, it would be laughter, a second language of sorts. Perhaps tapping into the ethos of what shaped me would organically shape the future I envision. When Husband and I are dust and the girls think back on our family, I don’t want the narrative to be playful Dad and serious Mom, but rather a cocoon of love laced with laughter. As the family’s cornerstone, it starts with me.