What could be simpler?

The screams that are currently assaulting my ears make me yearn for simpler times.

Times before I had Graham when I was absolutely certain about the type of person I was, the type of household I would run and, most significantly, the type of mother I would be.

I had it all planned out. I would be patient. I would be unruffled. On nights like tonight, I would not waver in my conviction that my son’s tearful, unrelenting chanting – Mama! Mama! – was symptomatic of fatigue as opposed to distress.

I would be logical. I wouldn’t even consider lifting him out of his crib, bringing him into the living room and allowing him to snuggle with me for an additional half hour on the couch. I would know – obviously - such actions would make it all the harder for him to settle down later.

I would never be one of those parents who let their children run their lives. I would be loving – of course I would be loving – but I would be firm. I would not be ruffled by tantrums. I would not be manipulated by – of all things – a two-year-old.

I was educated. I read all the books. I was secure in my belief that what children need above all else is consistency.

What could be simpler?

But then, back then, I never could have imagined how very, very complex the mixture of love, fear, protection and pain that a little boy’s cries can elicit.

Opportunity wasted

I burst into tears at the grocery store this morning.

I was wheeling down an aisle chattering happily to Graham who was munching a free cookie from the bakery when I heard a strange sound.

It was a hooting sound, like an owl makes. Except it wasn’t an owl, it was a little boy.

He was about seven, eight maybe and, I assume, autistic. He was handsome, He was hooting wildly and flapping his arms while his mother tried to hold him and rubbed his back, speaking to him in soothing terms.

And people were looking at them, or rather, trying not to look at them. And Graham lost all interest in his cookie and his eyes grew wide, out of curiosity, but not fear. And as we got closer I saw her face.

Oh, her face.

She looked tired. She looked resigned. But even more heartbreaking to me, she looked embarrassed.

And I wanted to stop and put my arms around her and say “Don’t be embarrassed, people understand. Do not be embarrassed.”

I wish I had said to her, “You’re doing a great job, you really are.”

Or even, “Is there anything at all I can do to help you?”

But I didn’t. I smiled as long (not long enough) and as warmly (not warmly enough) as I felt I comfortably could.

And then I wheeled around the corner and into the next aisle and my sweet Graham resumed chewing his cookie and I thought There, but by the grace of God, go I.

And I burst into tears.

Oh for crying out loud

Thank God I’m not running for President of the United States.

Besides the fact that running a campaign would seriously cut into my free time, I can’t imagine being scrutinized for every word, every nuance of every word, that comes out of my mouth.

And I especially can’t imagine not being allowed to tear up when I feel emotional.

You’ve probably heard by now of the big controversy over the fact that Hillary Clinton let a bit (just a smidgeon, really) of emotion creep into her voice during a recent news conference.

Now, I have no intention of debating the merits of Clinton vs Obama vs Edwards or whether Hillary letting her human side show was a calculated thing or whether it will help her or hurt her or even whether the whole controversy is sexist.

I just want to say that I if I were in her shoes, my response to every press query would be punctuated with copious, heaving sobs.
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I tear up when I hear the national anthem. For any country. I cry when people win money, appliances even, on game shows. I am prone to weeping during long-distance phone commercials while, at the same time, loudly snarking about how manipulative and cheesy commercials are these days.

And that’s when I’m well rested.

If I get less than seven hours sleep more than a few night in a row (yes, I’m spoiled – Graham slept through the night at six weeks), I get all melancholy and teary and prone to humming spirituals…Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen, nobody knows my sorrows.

And if someone were to inadvertently say something that might possibly be interpreted as slightly critical when I’m in that stressed and/ or sleep-deprived state?

Let’s just say that the ensuing hysterics would be waaay more entertaining than the clip of Hillary making the rounds in which she purportedly loses it. (That’s a breakdown? Sheesh – talk about amateur hour!)

It’s genetic, this propensity to shed tears at the drop of the hat. My mother is exactly the same. If we happen to be watching television together and something the least bit heart-wrenching comes on, we first get all self-conscious and avoid looking at each other.

Finally one of us will cast a surreptitious glance at the other, our teary eyes will meet and we will exchange a guilty, silly little laugh. This laugh acknowledges our mutual weirdness and serves as a green light for no-holds-barred sobs which are usually punctuated by bursts of laughter at the absurdity of it all.

So yeah, I’m thinking it’s probably a good thing I’m not running for President of the United States. Even if I were better at holding my emotions in check, I’m not sure middle America is ready for that photo of me in a princess hat and a feather boa.