By Michelle Compton
@michellecomptonphotography

I’m not a therapist, but I think I have resting therapist face. 

It's like the opposite of RBF. RBF conveys, "I have absolutely no interest in interacting with you in any way, shape, or form." Resting therapist face seems to say, "Tell me all your problems." 

The first time RTF happened, in my memory, I was fourteen. I thought people at the grocery store approached me because I'm 5'9" and I don't have to ask for assistance to reach items on the top shelf. But once, I was waiting for my mom by the cart when an elderly lady approached me with one carton of baby bella mushrooms and one carton of button mushrooms. She began to ruminate aloud to me whether she should purchase one or the other. I looked around assuming she was talking to someone behind me, but then she asked again if I had a preference.

Hesitantly, wondering if perhaps I was too young and of inexperienced taste to be giving mushroom advice, I informed her that I felt bella mushrooms were the better choice. While I glanced around, wondering whether my mother would be the type to abandon her teenage girl at Walmart or if she would be back soon, the woman contemplated aloud the pros and cons she assumed of each mushroom variety. When my mom returned she asked brightly, "Oh, who was that?" and I shrugged. She laughed, "The way she was talking, I thought she had known you a while. Maybe one of your friends' grandmas. Oh well, I guess you've never met a stranger."

***

Later on in college, when I had only been dating my now husband for a few weeks, I found him deep in conversation with a person I didn't recognize. His expression was warm and his laugh  generous. Blake waved bye and we walked back towards the car. 

"Who was that?" I asked.

"No idea."

I raised an incredulous brow, "I'm confused. You seemed familiar."

He laughed, less generously than the one for the stranger, but sincere. "I'm a pastor's kid. My dad would interim for churches all the time when we were growing up; you learn how to smile your way through conversations." 

I immediately wondered if our future children would be doomed to a life of conversation captivity. But I refrained from disclosing this thought to him because we hadn't talked about kids yet—or marriage, for that matter. In fact, he hadn't said "I love you," and I didn't want him to think I was crazy, even though I decided I would accept his marriage proposal two weeks after our first conversation.

***

We are now almost eleven years into marriage with three children. Our youngest is seven months old, so the jury is still out on whether or not he develops RTF, but my other two definitely have it. They come by it honestly. 

One day, I took the kids to our favorite park, which was a risky choice considering my sleep deprivation from the baby's night feeds. Another mom casually confessed how much she missed nursing. I hadn't even realized I was sitting boobs out feeding the baby on the park bench. 

"Is he your first?" she asked. 

"Oh, no. He's my third,” I answered. “My other two are making their rounds on all the playground equipment."

She conversed with me sporadically as she chased her 18-month-old and nonchalantly brushed the remnants of dead leaves off of his tongue. "He's my fourth. But it's the first time—I don't really know what you'd call it, the universe maybe, or like, spirits? I don't know. But I audibly heard voices telling me how to labor: when to turn, when to breathe, when to push." I forget what she said his name was (re: sleep deprivation), but she said it was Nordic for universe or something. 

I had no idea how to respond. I ended up landing on, "Do you ever wish they had talked you through the other three?" 

***

Later this same week, we made another pilgrimage to the same park. My daughter, at eight years old, led a parade of kids throughout the play structures. She was not the oldest or biggest kid in the posse, but she was definitely heading up the charge, as is common at our park visits. My older son, the 4-year-old, wove in and out of my daughter's playground quest as he pleased. Eventually he flagged down an 11-year-old boy on his bike, and became the big kid's shadow. The boy's 6-year-old sister tried to tag along, but her big brother didn’t seem interested in having the girl at his heels, too. Not one to sit idly by when someone is left out, my son grabbed her hand and led her to his big sister, who happily brought her into her fold. My 4-year-old raced back to the tween in a blur of laughter and woodchips. The girl, in turn, never left my daughter's side. 

My 8-year-old trotted over to me to retrieve her water bottle, after making sure her growing pack of playground kids were settled into the next activity. "Mommy, you know those new kids? The little girl told me that they just moved here last night," she reported. "Her parents divorced." 

"That's tough for kids. It's good you and your brother are including them."

"Yeah," she agreed, "and I know what it feels like to be the new kid and not know anybody. It helps if you get invited to play." She plopped her water bottle back on the table in front of me then jogged back to her mission. The other kids fluttered toward her like mayflies to a porch light. 

When we left, I watched the "new kids" wander back over to their mom. They were breathless and grinning. She smiled and said, "Thanks for playing, guys." And to me, "They don't seem shy."

"Not a bit," I replied. My daughter cooed to my youngest in his stroller, and I gently pushed my middle son’s sweaty hair off his forehead. I didn't see the words “tell me all your problems” scrawled there, but  they must be etched somewhere in his expressions, perhaps when his eyes squint and sparkle under his grin. 

I smiled and said, "They've never met a stranger."

Guest essay written by Michelle Compton. Michelle grew up in Oklahoma. Her husband is an ICU nurse in the US Navy. They live with their three kids in Southern California. She loves to write in the margins of motherhood and her photography business.

Photo by Jennifer Floyd.