July ‘25
A Spectacular Sob
In thirty minutes I will be asleep in my favorite red chair taking a rare and unexpected cat nap. But I’m currently darting past the seasonal display at the front of the store on a mission to grab eye drops. I had meant to swing by the store for days and am motivated by the emptying supply at home, as well as my unusual early start at work today, allowing me these extra minutes before my evening routine of yoga-dinner-bed. I’m not convinced I’ll make it to yoga today, nor am I convinced I’ll make it past these pleading rows of comfort food vying for my attention. The chaos in my head feels like a compacted pile of scenarios teetering precariously, full of the people who were in and out of my office all day - a pattern of disruption akin to the early years of parenting three small humans in diapers, with sticky fingers and muddy shoes, all without an ability to empathize with me as I attempted to feed them, bathe them, clothe them, train them, and God forbid throw their tiny tushes into bed. Crossing the store aisle I can even hear a child cry now.
Literally.
The mom holds a baby while she bends toward a sobbing sibling, and the eldest of the trio stands back innocently. As I make my way into the Teeth-Eyes-Lotion aisle, I hear the admirably calm mother say, “That’s why we don’t…” I’m trying not to listen. I’m struggling to handle my usual mom empathy - having reached a state of frazzlement myself - and am losing the battle in my soul where I normally lavish compassion toward parents in charge of publicly crying kids. Righteous thoughts beat down my motherly allegiance. Why did you bring your kids to the store right before dinner when you know they’re hungry and tired? It is, after all, easier to imagine I know everything when I myself am hungry and tired. I scoot along, determined to grab my eye drops and be done with this errand despite the fact that the teetering pile in my head now has a screaming three year old throwing darts at it.
Oooh. Fresh minty breath strips, my go-to brand. Yesss. I grab a pack. It is a small victory to fill each hand - one with eye drops and the other with breath refreshers - staving off the desire to fill my arms with ice cream, chips, and chocolate.
I retrace my steps and scoot toward the self-check at the front of the store. Crying Child is writing a second movement in this screaming concerto as their ensemble moves to the other end of the store. That is one determined set of lungs. Helluva performance. I’m intrigued by her range. I am struck by her emotion and what she is saying with only tears. I get you, kid! I feel the same way! I want to scream right now too. Screw all the social training of a lifetime that’s repressing my true expression right now. I hear your disappointment. I hear your longing for a different outcome - yes - and your indignance! I feel your desire to change what has happened to you - I don’t care if your sibling was justified or if you shouldn’t have shoved her or whatever the hell you did, because if you wanted to do whatever you did you should have the right to do so, dammit! Wail on! Scream like hell, kid! Carry on! Get it all out while you can. In ten years from now it’s all going to get trained out of you, diverted into words and think-about-what-you’ve-done modifications. Your lease on crying over spilled milk is running out, kiddo. Enjoy it while you can.