I felt the baby move last night. I was collapsed on the couch next to my (equally exhausted) husband, watching the girls tackle each other on the floor of the living room. Kurt had his legs across my lap and we were just… being. He’s been working so much lately that it was a perfectly perfect moment of perfection to just exist within the same minimal square footage together.

And then, just above and to the side of my left hip, a tickle. I moved my hand over the spot unconsciously, a gesture that was more muscle memory from my previous pregnancies than an actual reaction to the sensation.

And then, again, a flutter, against the inside of my skin.

“Hey,” I whispered to Kurt, “Hey! It moved! I felt it move.”

“Are you sure that’s not just dinner moving?”

“NO!”. I glared. “This is different. I know this. I remember this.”

Suddenly, without even realizing it, my face morphed into a huge smile, practically melting away every line of exhaustion and stress that’s etched it’s way in over the past few months. A flood of memories blurred my vision; laying still in the night while the world slept and a baby moved and twirled inside my belly, just the two of us, my hands curving against the bumps and punches, feeling amazed and amused all at once.

It moved. There’s a baby and it moves and grows and will be a person and have soft skin and warm breath and fingers that wrap tight around my own. Oh, my God.

It moved.

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.