I used to be a
big crier. Oh god, in middle school I would cry if I got a bad grade, if someone looked at me funny, or if a teacher reprimanded me for anything. In high school, I would cry when I broke up with a boyfriend, when I didn't get the role I tried out for in the school play, and when my parents wouldn't let me stay out as late as I wanted. In college, I cried when I didn't win the Hamblet Award at Vanderbilt, and...well, I'm sure there were other times. I just don't remember. I'm sure I cried a bunch after college too.
But since having kids, I
haven't really cried very much. I cried in the hospital after having Baby T while reading a magazine that described an infant's age in stages, and I couldn't imagine him ever being older than he was then. When I was pregnant with Little M, I was very emotional, but I couldn't cry. In fact, my midwife thought
maybe a good cry would bring on labor after my water broke and I wasn't having contractions, but I just couldn't do it.
This week, the same day I was complaining to Big T that there were toys all over the house and I just couldn't keep up with the laundry and clothing rotation, smoke started pouring out of the hood while I was driving both boys around town, and I frantically toted both boys and all of our belongings down the street to a generous friend's house. I kind of
wanted to break down in tears. But I didn't.
Maybe this is why:
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| Drowned Toys |
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| Bathtime Antics |
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| A Noodle Hose |
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| A Determined, Yet Sleepy, Fireman |
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| Those Eyes! |
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| Monkey Butt |
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| This Sweetness |
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