Front Seat Passenger

My daughter recently transitioned to being a front seat passenger

when it is just her and I

driving,

engaged in parallel conversations,

snacking on Swedish fish, 

listening to podcasts or her poppy “pool party playlist” 

(that I secretly enjoy on my Sunday run).

When she was small and still

in the back seat, 

my mom rigged mirrors 

from all angles off the headrest

so we could see her eyes, mouth, nose 

in the rear view mirror.

When she was small we monitored

breathing, hunger, slumber

Now I angle metaphorical  mirrors toward my front seat passenger, 

attempts to monitor brain chemistry, soul, and faith.

She and I drive through Wisconsin 

moments before the sun sets at 6:00 pm

hours before the leaves finally fall

days before an election.

Years ago when 

she was a back seat bunny

gazing backward out the window 

she pondered the loss of Tempest Shadow’s horn and

requested alternative choruses of  “Wheels on the Bus”

….. Transmission uses his gears 

………Alternator changes the energy

Now she gazes out the windshield with me

and ponders other things 

I try to share all

the things I wish I would have known 

at her age

to make life easier 

to make it more beautiful

but doesn’t every mother make this attempt 

all the while the daughter cringes?

At some point we just need to start singing again. 

As I learned when I was twenty-one years old,

No one is a better DJ

than a front seat passenger.

Something from almost nothing

She had a story about her seven-year-old daughter that I love to think about in spring. It was a tiny snippet of a story- a side conversation really. Her daughter would pick up fallen scraps of foliage on the concrete slab floor of a Lowes Home Garden Center and tuck them in her pockets. You know... the loose vines and leaf stems that are usually swept up at the end of the day and tossed. The flowers and their damaged stems, rolled over by carts and careless sandal feet. Garbage to most people. No one noticed her collecting the rejected scraps. Most people were looking at the full-bodied plants. Days later her mother found sedums and begonias propagating in her bedroom windows. Her daughter propagated a whole garden from damaged discard. Each spring I wonder where she is now and what incredible things she is creating from almost nothing. 

Preferably with Glitter

She greets me with enthusiasm and mispronounces my name every week. She loves to relay all the information she knows about me and repeats any phrases that sound extra melodic to her. The state of her thrilling topknot of curls communicates what kind of morning has had. I’m sure she could acquire the same information from the state of my bangs. She tells me about my daughter and son, adding extra syllables to their names that I secretly adore. She asks questions about my daughter and son before moving on to a new question. Do I like mushrooms? Do I eat them off the ground? I tell her I eat them, preferably grilled, with my pizza or cheeseburgers. I am sure this information will be repeated back to me next week. “Ms. Coke likes grilled mushrooms on her pizza and cheeseburgers. Not mushrooms from the ground.” And like the brilliant lyrical Susan Boynton Belly Button Book book I will echo in my head: No, never mushrooms from the ground.

It is sweet to have someone who holds fragmented details of your life in their thoughts. To have someone interested in the tiniest, mundane details and listens so thoroughly that she can repeat it back to you as though it were a fascinating fact. I hope she knows that I treasure fragmented conversations between us as well. This is what I love about my job- the daily interactions spanning over years with people I otherwise would never have any chance of meeting. I recently listened to an occupational therapy podcast that called for us to really dig into our client/ student/ patient’s dreams and values in a life worth living and work from this perspective. If I love nothing else, I love a good dream. 

I think of the 55+ year-old bachelor spending twenty minutes of our session finding his best angle for a selfie to post on a dating website and using his hemiplegic fingers to take the shot. Or the woman who wanted to pick back up writing her finance blog but first chose the most vibrant of colors to paint the fingernails of her hemiplegic hand. It was she who taught me about the concept of “the party nail”- a fingernail painted a different color than the others. “Preferably, with glitter.” Or the jeweler who was unable to form words but always came with tools and chemicals to clean the wedding rings of his therapy team. Or the woman who called me “Dr Pink-Purple” so affectionately that I still sometimes long to hear those words again. I have a thousand tiny treasured stories from tens of thousands interactions that I am so thankful to have been a part of. Every day I go to work, I get to encounter more. 

When I left my last job at the hospital, a colleague casually said to me “Now I’m going to be the one with the loudest laugh.” At first, I was taken aback and a little embarrassed. But as I thought about it, most of the time outpatient occupational therapists are one of the last stops in a medical journey. I have learned this journey can be incredibly dehumanizing- not because of the lack of an amazing medical staff but because it is such a system. A colleague used to joke about the Labor and Delivery unit always winning the “most satisfied customer” award every year. “Of course, they win- people get to come home with a baby and happy hormones. What do rehab patients get? A quad cane and a grab bar in their shower. At best.” So when my patients visited me and were open to dreaming, joking, and laughing, I loved meeting them right there. When they wanted a tiny party between functional hand exercises and practicing visual scanning strategies, I filled the Dixie cups with water and we drank to possibilities. And I guess we laughed pretty loud sometimes too. 

"There in the shade and hid from the sun we freed our minds and learned 
Our greatest reason for being here, our bodies moved and burned 
There on our mountain bed of leaves we learned life's reason why 
The people laugh and love and dream, they fight, they hate to die" 

- Mountain Bed, Jeff Tweedy/ Billy Bragg 

Radiation Bliss

He has been my champion of the occupational therapy profession since I met him many years ago. “I love OT!” he used to shout every time I entered his classroom. It didn’t matter how many times I had already been there that day or if I was walking in on a quiet lesson being taught. The enthusiastic greeting was consistent and welcoming. His classmate would follow by broadcasting something like “The Obstacle Course is here” in a more monotone cadence. And that became my name- Obstacle Course- with their teacher finding the most joy in this career rebrand. I loved this class. I loved this group of six and seven year olds. I loved this teacher. I still love being called “obstacle course” every once in a while because we continue to find it amusing.

Years later I am standing in a kitchenette and my now-grown-friend is practicing microwaving pancakes for a small group of friends. He is careful and thoughtful, slowly lowering the plate into the microwave and punching in the numbers to heat them for a minute. As soon as the microwave begins to glow he starts to jump, occasionally twirling, and bombards me with anticipatory questions.


“Are they gonna love it?”

“Is this so nice that we are making them pancakes?”

“Is this the best party we've ever had?”

“Are you going to eat pancakes too?”


The microwave beeps and his jumping instantly halts. He slowly reaches into the microwave, adjusting the stack of pancakes and monitoring the temperature while being cautious not to burn himself. We decide to add 15 more seconds. The jumping and twirls begin again as the microwave lights up and hums.


“Do you think they will love the pancakes?”

“Isn’t this so nice of us?”

“I love my friends so much. Do you think they will love this?”


I ask my friend if he feels happy. Excited. He is losing his mind in these fifteen seconds and after this, I never use the microwave without recalling this all-consuming delight. Radiation bliss. We serve plates of steaming pancakes to his friends minutes later and they, being wonderful humans sticky with syrup lips and fingers, tell him how much they indeed love these pancakes. He is so full of joy he almost forgets to leave a few pancakes on the plate for himself. "These are the best pancakes I've ever had," he finally says between bites. I respond that they absolutely are. 

On Turning Ten

My daughter spends the last days of her single-digit-years kayaking among dreamy domes of vibrant lime green mountain moss in Vermont. Small citrus shades of tufts cling to rock and weathered wooden bridges, activating happy sensory circuits as our bare feet brush against their softness. Down by the pond, my daughter wades into its bank, mud squishing to form a fleeting footstep. She spends hours scouting for the tiniest toads and crawfish with her dad and brother. 

I find a reading nook between the pond and a delicious babbling brook. I enjoy how the color schemes of my stack of books blend so beautifully with those limelight green and earthy browns. Solitude gives me a moment to notice how the pond reflects pine trees and the enormous, cumulus clouds so vividly that it almost tips my reality upside-down. Sun sparkles dance on the floor of this magical space as an afternoon breeze settles in. 

I wish I could stir all these happy ingredients into a lotion that I can reapply daily for the rest of my life. Or package this particular color wheel into a tube of paint so I can spread it across a canvas when hard days arrive. Instead, I absorb this moment through all my senses and tenderly tuck it deep into my brain matter as the precious tiny gift that it is. Just as I have been doing these past ten years with my daughter, whose hair used to turn translucent in the sunlight.

People love to tell new mothers that childhood goes by in a blink of an eye. I always nod, knowingly. Growing up, my parents called me "Little Busia". Little Grandma. I have always been keenly aware of the bittersweet passing of time. The only remedy I know is to find occasional moments to slow down and soak in life's moments as best as I am able. I appreciated Albert Lee’s words of wisdom that he shared with Ben after the birth of our daughter. “Each stage is so unique and you think you will be devastated when she grows out of it until you realize the next stage is pretty awesome too.” 

We arrive the next day in Boston and, after a rather competitive game of family Uno in the public garden, my daughter turns ten. Standing in Brittany’s apartment in the South End neighborhood, she confesses she feels sad to say goodbye to nine. Brittany, who is just as close in age to my daughter as she is to mine, nods empathetically. “Nine is a great prime number.” My daughter sighs and they share a moment of sadness together. There are sheets of rain pouring onto the streets of Boston when my husband invites our daughter to walk to the nearest coffee and donut shop for a mini birthday date. I remember how vulnerable my heart felt when I first held this baby girl. I thought I had endured big heartbreak before but never had I experienced the sheer amount of power that one little human being could command on whether or not my heart stayed unified or not. For the rest of my life. If there is any comfort in loving someone so deeply, it is knowing that someone else in this world loves her just as much. 

We head to the ocean with Brittany when the date is done- Sandwich, Barnstable, Provincetown. The words “Hey Brittany!” become the anthem of the weekend as our five-year-old son begs for her attention. There are late-night walk-up ice cream counters and carryout dinners sitting beside a tumultuous Atlantic ocean. On a calmer day, Brittany, my daughter, and I spend hours wading through entire seaside ecosystems and tidepools. My son experiences the ocean tides for the first time, jumping, leaping, getting mouthfuls of salt water, sputtering, and spitting. 

I have been dreaming of getting in our car and driving to the ocean since April 2020. It is only fitting that Brittany is here. Brittany, who spent so many years in our living room watching my daughter learn to speak, read, and wonder aloud. Brittany, who bought my daughter women in science t-shirts featuring Madame Curie and Mae Jemison. Who gifted kids books on Quantum Physics, folktales from around the world, and (my favorite) roadkill science. Brittany who ate her dinners of noodles while we met weekly if not multiple times weekly on Zoom throughout March-April-May 2020. When summer 2020 came it was Brittany laying down her blanket in our backyard, on the beach, Garden Park, Wicker Park and joining us for socially distanced dinners where I shared my strong desire to drive to the ocean. Brittany who supplied the families in our bible study with no less than 150 free Covid test kits. Brittany who loves our family so faithfully.

Our east coast travels conclude in the Hudson Valley. On a Sunday evening, we wave goodbye to Brittany as her ferry departs from Provincetown for Boston. On a Monday we are in the Catskills, meeting our niece Mayerli in front of her dorm room. Resourceful, spirited, beautiful, twenty years young- she immediately wraps her arms around her cousins. She arrived early to school for cross-country practice and in this mostly empty building we share our opinions on her dorm furniture and choosing the best dorm room according to capacity for sunlight. She is vibrant in this new home and we laugh as she explains the multiple colorful band-aids patched over her knees. Apparently, her dorm keycard isn’t working and she has to crawl through her dorm window every time she wishes to enter the building. I take a video of her setting up a chair she has hidden in the bushes and then of her hoisting herself up through the lead glass windows. I send it to her mother who will also laugh and groan.

In this moment I gain brief clarity about what I can dream for my daughter over the next ten years. These are the years to build stamina, grit, creative problem-solving, and faithfulness. To continue encouraging wonder and exploration. To provide more invitations to walk to a coffee shop in the rain in new cities, spend more time wading through mud and tidepools in the name of curiousity, read more fairytales, advocate for what you need (maybe it is sunlight!), board ferries that pull us away from the familiar, and teach how to climb in through windows when the door isn’t an option (metaphorically and literally). We wave goodbye to Mayerli the same way we waved to Brittany: knowing that she is thriving in the process of growing.

** Fun Resource: Storybook House on Wright Mountain, Vermont

Allagash White

I remember her barefoot with the squishiest legs 

Dangling over the pier

Toes barely touching the water

My smallest love, sitting there in the quiet of a sleepy town in September 

Middle of Maine

Middle of the week 

Lakeside, mountainside

In a video I capture her production of language- all cheeks & cadence-

She is noticing the pier that moves

Up and Down on the gentle laps of water

“It's like the people,” she says

And begins to sing

The people on the bus go up and down

She turns to look at me

Light pink glasses framing a devoted gaze

Two square chiclet front teeth 

Freshly three years old

I revisit this video over and over

The way her voice sounds when she says “people” 

I tell every new mother to take all the videos

Catch that tiny voice

The way each word is so intentionally strung together

Syllables pronounced with definition

Sentence structure concrete and singular 

like every word is sliding a counter on a abacus

I sometimes live in these Maine moments

Morning Kayaks 

Mist on the water, feet splashing

Collecting fallen birch bark on the steep trail 

leading us from the house to the pier

Miss Rumphius by the fireplace

Allagash White in the evenings 

The darkness of night when we tried to convince her to gaze upward

Searching out for stars 

Grasping for glory

She refused

Because she was three

Years later there is June

Two-year-old daughter of a friend

Her voice is all cheeks & cadence 

Every word so articulate and intentionally expressed 

I hold her on my hip and I watch her 

cheeks inflate as she narrates

The actions of her older sister, my daughter, 

And a miniature horse named Miss Mouse

There is no lake but just a stream of sudsy hose water

That trickles past my feet as I snuggle 

Happy that I can live 

in my memory of the middle of Maine right here

------------

* Picture Hancock, Maine September 2016 

** Actual pier sat in Rangely, Maine

*** Fun resource: Allagash is a Maine brewery and Allagash White continues to be one of my favorite drinks because of this very week 

Life is an 86 Year Old Cabaret

She demanded that we assemble in the waiting room at 3 o'clock so she could perform a song as a way to thank us for our services over the last three months. Tiny, Jewish, and eighty-six-year-old Sally* couldn't wait for her moment to shine. Boisterous and lovely, she loved to tell us the story of a date she once had with a rabbi. "The date happened just before I met my husband (sixty-some years ago). This rabbi had the hots for me and he asked me out. I was a looker. We went to dinner and guess what I ordered? I ordered ribs!" she said, emphasizing her rebellious choice of pork with large eyes, raised eyebrows and voice, and a jab with her elbow to my side. We assembled in the waiting room like she had requested. She sat in a chair next to her devoted ninety-two-year-old husband who was her full-time oxygen tank holder. "Is everyone here?" she asked before literally leaping to her feet to perform. Ninety-five pounds of our dear Sally* began her song: a full Liza Minella rendition of "Life is a Cabaret". She danced into the audience, she twirled therapists and our MD, she growled like Liza, and she wouldn't stop singing even after we had applauded twice. Meanwhile, her husband chased her around with the oxygen tank so she wouldn't unplug the oxygen tube that was nestled in her nose.

After the performance and a Friday rush to finish up documentation, our doctor came into the office. "Doesn't that make it worth it?" she asked us, leaning her own tiny frame against the door in her miniskirt and heels. This doctor didn't dress down even though her job required inspecting feet for gout often. We had to agree: our job was worth it.


* Name and some details changed
** Photo: Chicago Botanic Garden September 2023
** Fun Resource: The Man Who Mist His Wife for a Hat - Oliver Sacks ... A perfect illustration of how wondrous the brain can be. I had the pleasure of working as a neurological focused occupational therapist for 12 years and it remains my favorite.