A colleague directed my attention to a revolutionary blog called Reasons My Son is Crying. Such a convenient, user-friendly resource, I thought, to embarrass and humiliate my children while scoring social networking points.
Then I began to reconsider. I think we have moved beyond that level as a family. A truly meaningful blog for us would be “Reasons My Son is NOT Crying.” Because, to be honest, there are scant few things that haven’t made them cry. You know the saying, there’s no use crying over spilled milk? Well, Widget1 found a use for it. He spilled his milk and cried. Sometimes his crying is forgivable, like the other night when his regularly scheduled programming was interrupted by the State of the Union Address (actually, I may have been the one who cried). But then there are times like tonight, when an empty toilet paper roll inspired crocodile tears of despair. A woman recently told him not to cry like a sissy girl. That really isn’t fair to the girls, because most of them don’t cry half as often or half as loud. Then this evening, Widget2 became hysterical after tossing his drum stick across the train table beyond his reach. He was so upset about not being able to stretch his go-go Gadget arm far enough to retrieve the drum stick that it took a couple of minutes for him to remember that he knew how to walk. Finally, he toddled around to the side of the table and easily reached his goal.
I’m hoping this means that the boys will grow up to be very passionate artists who channel their misery into million dollar paintings.
At any rate, I can’t really criticize them for it without pointing a finger back at myself. I still vividly remember bursting into tears in the 1st grade after a classmate stepped on my newly purchased cupcake on the hallway floor. It was a long time ago, and my therapist says I’m making strides, but I still get a chill up my spine whenever the church bulletin advertises a bake sale.