For anyone who knows me, this Confession will hardly come as a shock: I cry a lot. Not as much as I used to, thank goodness, but I think it is safe to say that I spend more time in tears than your average bear. It’s not that my life is terrible, nor is it that I am a spoiled brat, it’s just my coping mechanism. At least that’s what my therapist says. Just kidding, I don’t have a therapist.
Though I probably should.
I joke a lot about chocolate being the cure for everything. And while I really do think I am on to something there, tears really are my first line of defense.
If I’m frustrated, I cry. Tired? Tears. Angry? I cry then too. If I am angry at someone while I am crying I like to think that I can direct my tears in their general direction. My eldest daughter, Melanie (15), used to projectile cry when she was a baby/toddler. Her tears didn’t just stream from her eyes down to her chunky cheeks, they leaped from her lashes and landed about an inch below her eyes. It was a spectacle to behold – her tantrums in general were a spectacle, but I digress. Back to me. Because, you know, it’s ALL about me.
When I was a kid and into my teen years, I cried daily. Sometimes several times in one day. I hated it. It was so embarrassing but I couldn’t not cry. If I could have sucked those tears back up into my eyes, I assure you that I would have. The only thing worse than crying, is crying in front of people (cue Rizzo from “Grease”), and back then as now, I always seemed to have an audience. Only now my audience is usually my kids.
And they are usually the ones making me cry.
Now before you get all “no one can make you feel a certain way” on me, allow me to say, most kindly: Stick it. (Lovingly, of course, always with love.) If there is a parent out there who hasn’t been reduced to tears by the actions of their children at one point in time or another, I think that your children are aliens, or you are parenting wrong.
My tears don’t come just out of frustration. My minions can bring me to tears through joy, with pride, and sometimes I just love them so much that it overflows through my eyes. My youngest, Dory (6 months), gets that a lot from me. My pregnancy before her ended in loss at 17 weeks. It wasn’t my first miscarriage, but it was by far the most traumatic. It was the first time I had miscarried in the second trimester. I won’t dwell on the details today, but suffice it to say that I have allowed myself to simply sit and adore Dory far more than I did my other kids because she helps to heal the ache of the one we lost. (Crying now just writing about it.)
So next time you are having a good cry (or a bad cry), just think of your friend Christina over here at Confessions of a Flawed Human. Chances are I am crying too.