When I was a child,  back when dinosaurs drove carpools, I remember crying in class once because Billy Powell cheated at a board game.  I had been waiting for weeks to have ‘activity time’ and then when I finally achieved it, my opponent, all 72 pounds of him, stole the playing pieces, threw them on the floor, then went off in search of another child to harangue.  I remember other girls crying and they always seemed so fragile, everyone wanted to take care of them.  When I cried, drat that Billy, I didn’t have a crowd of people surrounding me making soothing noises.   I just  remember nervous looks at my inflamed cheeks, matching red eyes and snotty, grossly-leaking nose.  I also remember ears being plugged and the teacher rolling her eyes.  I wasn’t, and have never been a ‘pretty’ cry-er.  Some people are good at that, I’m sure you know a few; They avoid final exams, speeding tickets, pick up men right-and-left all with a dainty sniff and glistening tear.  I obviously didn’t have the knack.

After that 1st grade embarrassment I vowed, a la Scarlett O’Hara, to nevah-evah-evah cry in public again.  And I didn’t, until I had kids.

For some reason being pregnant kicked the crying gene into overdrive.  I cry at news stories (the happy ones), smarmy card company commercials, obituaries of 98-year-olds, kids who don’t eat their dinner, shoe marks on the linoleum, a child’s painting: You name it, I’m boo-hoo’ing.  Today as I headed home through molasses-thick traffic I saw a middle-school kid almost get hit by a car.  He didn’t, however, and safely continued his slow jaunt across the street while glaring at the restless drivers. Even though he was safe, I imagined a worse ending and actually cried about it the rest of the way home.

I cry when I get a phone call or email from my son, and then I cry if I don’t hear from him for more than 48 hours. I cry when my daughters behave horribly, and then I cry even more when my youngest offers to load the dishwasher.  I cried at work recently when I had a rotten day and at that moment I realized I had a problem.  I’d be better off shooting myself than crying at work.  It shows weakness, which in a male-dominated field (are techno-geeks male?), weakness is an Achilles heel. 

I either have to cut out this crying crap, or start applying for tissue commercials.  Uh-oh, my daughter just gave her sister a hug. 

I’m screwed.

Print Friendly