Meghan’s Story

I grew up in New England where March felt like a repetitive maybe–maybe it would snow, maybe not–maybe it would rain, maybe not–the first of April felt like a significant promise of better days ahead.

I always liked the idea of April Fools.

My siblings and I were black belts at boredom. We made up all sorts of creative, non-conformist games to fill hours that would one day be allotted to Atari and movies on VHS tape.

My favorite didn’t have a formal game name, but Jordan Peele would probably call it “human stalking.” It involved knowing where a sibling was (on the couch watching tv, sitting at the table doing homework, playing G.I. Joes on the kitchen floor) or even better ABOUT to be (the bottom of the stairs, the bathroom, coming in from outside), and finding a way to slowly creep up and scare them.

My younger brother was the king. At its heart, the game required incredible patience. He would hear my mother yell to one of us (generally just the three youngest played) to get into our pajamas or go up to bed and he’d take his place at the foot of the stairs, ready to pounce when a foot hit the landing.

Someone almost always ended up crying or sent to their room.

My mother was a noninterventionist by nature. She followed the “they’ll work it out” approach to parenting right up until tears–cries of pain, fear or frustration were treated equally–with a yell of “THAT’S ENOUGH” in our general direction. Our “stalking game” was almost always enough.

It feels like we played my entire childhood. It’s more likely it was over the span of the years when I was around 10 to 12 years old. My brother was two years younger, and my little sister four years younger. Despite our age difference, our skills were all solid.

As I kid I assumed my mother hated our game. We were such a busy family–dinner, homework, sports, CCD. For every empty hour we kids had, my mother had a dozen chores needing doing.

But I can remember the first time I saw her play.

My brother was concentrating on homework at the head of our kitchen table, his back to where my mother was slowly turning meatballs in an oversized dutch oven. I stood at the island doing something unmemorable when she intentionally caught my eye and made a sort of itsy-bitsy-spider movement with her hands. Her nails were very long.

My brain was slower than her movement and I almost missed it–the incongruous look of mischief.

She crept noiselessly behind my unsuspecting brother, leaned forward, gently scratched his neck, and whispered, “boo” in his ear.

I couldn’t believe it.

It was the absolute best scare I’d ever seen.

Books and pencils went flying, he was simultaneously out of his seat, and on the ground. Screaming. Laughing. He was screaming laughing. Tears rolled down her cheeks. The meatballs likely burned.

I was in awe.

And I was jealous.

My brother and mother had a tight bond. It was hard to get in, and it was infused with fun. He thought she was fun. She thought she was fun. They had more fun together than I knew how to do or invite. And it grew. Something about our maturing, let my mother be more immature, and it was completely delightful.

Just after her epic scare, my brother played the best and only April Fools Day prank on a parent I have witnessed (there were others, once the seal was broken, our house could be a very fun and funny place, but I went to boarding school).

He woke early in the morning, and snuck downstairs armed with a simple, tan rubber band. He wrapped it twice around the spray nozzle feature of our kitchen sink, ensuring the handle would be depressed when the faucet turned on, and replaced it facing out.

He’d woken me, but I wasn’t in on the plan until I saw it unfolding. I felt joy AND panic.

My unsuspecting mother went straight to the sink. She was short. Just over five feet. The water sprayed out in an arch.

And hit her in the face.

It was glorious.

My most reliable memories are of my mother laughing. Head back, tears streaming, mouth open, screaming with laughter. She loved a good joke, and a well crafted story. She sought out the absurd and the ridiculous and when she found it she would share the joy by telling everyone she knew. She collected friends and cultivated family, with tremendous senses of humor.

I am so grateful to have known and been raised by her.

And I miss her like hell.

Meghan Riordan Jarvis is a trauma and grief-informed psychotherapist, speaker, educator, writer, wife, and mother of three.  After losing both her parents within two years of each other she began Grief Is My Side Hustle. (www.griefismysidehustle.com). Meghan runs a free online grief writing workshop through her website and is currently working on a memoir about grief, loss, and the things we don’t say to each other.