Weeping...

I'm going to cry as I write this, which is why it is fitting that I write about it.

I've never been a "crier".  In other posts, I've already covered how I can't get through church without weeping at least once these days--usually caused by the music--and it has made me wonder how/why I do now when I never used to. 

Looking back at my life, I realize that weeping wasn't really acceptable to my mother or grandmother.  (I've written about that, too.  I think they lived in fear that if they gave in to those kinds of emotions in moments of stress, they would fall apart, yet didn't have the luxury to do that.)  When I was very young--like 4 or 5--I would cry every time I threw up.  My mother would complain, "What are you crying for??"  And once, I managed to clonk myself on the nose with a wire hanger and my nose bled.  (That was the only real nose-bleed I ever really had, btw.)  I cried, and again I was asked why.  Well...I was scared.  Doesn't everyone cry when they're scared??  And then, of course, there was the mom-ism:  "If you don't stop crying, I'll give you something to cry about!"  I got the message.  Crying was to be reserved for moments of great grief/pain...not little annoyances. 

The one valuable thing I learned from that was that crying changes nothing.  Weep all you want, but when the weeping is done, the problems that caused it are still there to be dealt with.  For many, many years, I just chose to skip the weeping part and move on to "What do I need to do now??"  It has been a blessing...and a curse.  I think it has made me look hard-boiled and uncaring when nothing could be further from the truth. 

When my baby was born, I fell in love.  I rocked her and sang to her and tended to her.  Then, slowly, I began to realize that I was the only parent she had.  Her father was on his own selfish track in life.  I did everything I could to make up for her not having the father that I had hoped she'd have...and that made me all the harder in appearances.  I covered up my loneliness.  I made every holiday tradition seem glorious even though it wasn't.  When her father and I split up, I did that all the more.  I wasn't happy, but I didn't cry where anyone could see me.  Ugh!

Many years later, my grandbabies were born.  When Nathan and Megan sat in my living room and told me they were expecting, my first thoughts were of doom.  Holy cow!  Two weeks ago, they told me they didn't want to have kids!  They are too young!  They are practically newlyweds...need to establish themselves better before they have children!  And then, before the conversation even ended, I was rolling up my sleeves to determine what "we" needed to do next.  Robin arrived, followed by Ryan just 15 months later.  They changed everything.  The new focus of my life was those children.  OMG, how I love them!  They had me wrapped around their fingers!  (Still do!)

Then, one day, Meg and Nate's marriage deteriorated.  Megan and the children came to live with me, without prior notice.  My focus changed again to provide space for us all.  Megan took over and did her thing...and, in time, our circumstances got better.  We had some rough spots, but we were working together to make things work.  And then the bottom fell out.

Megan fell in love with her now-husband.  She gave custody of the children to their father in a surprise move that left me reeling so she could follow him to California for his job.  It wasn't handled well.  I felt bad enough but felt horrible for my grandchildren who didn't have a clue what had hit them.  Somehow, it was all to be my fault.  Without a doubt, this was the worst time of my life--beyond my mother's death--beyond my ugly divorce.  And THIS is where the crying started with me.  The facade, the paper-thin veneer of strength, is only good as long as everything is going well.  Cry?  I have wept a river...and still can in any given situation.

Which is what brings me to what caused me to write on this topic today.  There is a commercial on TV that I think is a plea for funds for a children's hospital.  It shows children with cancer, looking pale and pathetic, and the music...oh, the music...is a wordless lullabye.  It reminds me of the lullabye in the movie "Dumbo" as the mother elephant rocks her baby outside of the train car where she is unfairly imprisoned...so near, yet so far.  I can't take it!  I hit the "mute" button on the remote as soon as I hear the first strains, but it doesn't stop the tears.  I think of my grandchildren.  I think of my daughter.  I think of me.   And the only one in the whole equation that seems unworthy of being hugged and loved is me because I am old and infirm.  I can't ask for love.  I don't know how.  Probably wouldn't know what to do with it if I had it.  So what do I do now?  I cry!

Megan and I were talking about loneliness today.  I'm not lonely.  I have a life and things to do that keep me going, but I sure wish they would take the commercial off the TV.  For the first time in my existence, I have roots in Plainfield.  I just wish the rest of the world would conform to my little picture of how things should be. 

I think I finally understand how my mother-in-law---a hard-boiled soul, for sure--could weep for a few seconds in the midst of a normal conversation about things that happened a zillion years ago.  I think I'm beginning to understand...