Big Girls Don’t Cry…Or Do They?

I had about nine other things I thought I wanted to talk about today, but scrapped them all.  My head is stuck in one particular place, and since it’s all I can think about, I’m going with it.  I can’t decide if I’m angry or sad or a little bit of both.  Probably that.  Some kid called my Kidzilla a crybaby and this Mamma ain’t happy.

OK, so kids are kids.  True.  Kids are crybabies.  True.  Heck, grownups are crybabies sometimes.  Some stuff is just worth crying about.  Sometimes people cry not because the situation at hand is worth the watershed, but because something else is really on your mind and that makes you cry.  All fine.  But this kid called my kid a name.  That’s just mean.  I do know that kids (and grownups) can be mean.  Really mean.  But this kid was mean to my kid.  Does that make it different somehow?  Yes, yes it does.

When I hear someone (including myself) whine and cry about how tough something is, I say, “Life’s tough; this is good practice.”  And you can insert just about anything you like here…sad, unfair, mean, ugly.  It all fits.  I do not intend to be a miserable crab, but we all know that life is not terrific all of the time.  Sometimes lousy things happen.  They just do.  And it doesn’t mean the world is horrible, it just means that there is balance in the world.  There is dark and light, good and evil, male and female… Balance is necessary for all things to work.

Even knowing this, my heart broke in a million pieces for my baby girl.  Even knowing that peer pressure and nastiness and all the rest doesn’t wait for school age or teen age or the legal drinking age, I somehow didn’t think all that balance would find its way to my precious Zilla’s world quite so soon.

So what’s a mom to do?  Kinda want to call Super Mom and ask her if she ever wanted to make somebody cry as retribution for calling one of her kids a name. Based on how I feel right now, though, I think I probably know the answer already.   But that’s not reasonable and it certainly doesn’t solve anything.  Not with any positive results, anyway.

So, I held my Zilla extra long in our rocking chair before bed tonight and I held her extra tight.  And I told her sometimes people are mean and life is tough, but we have to practice being strong and kind even if we are hurting inside and just don’t feel like it.  We talked about why the mean kid called her that name and what she was crying over in the first place.  I said I understood why she cried, but maybe there was a different way to handle the situation than crying.  We discussed some options for her to consider in the future.

I told her what my Wonderful Grandfather told me so many times: “Sometimes crying is OK, but save a few of your tears.  You’re going to need some when you get older.”  I thought the man was insane.  As far as my kid Self was concerned, grownups didn’t cry.  I couldn’t recall ever having seen him cry.  But now as I write this through tear-filled eyes, I know he was so very right.  And as I tucked her in extra snug, I prayed hard that those were the right words and that everything I do might show her those words in action.  That’s hard.  Really hard.  But regardless of how hard it might be to face the tough stuff of life with grace and strength, regardless of whether those efforts make any change, it has to be what she learns to chose over any lesser option.

Tonight I cry for my Zilla’s hurt feelings.  Maybe I cry because I was so angry at that other kid.  Or maybe I really cry for fear of the rough road our little family has in front of us.  I remind myself that life is tough and this is good practice.  We won’t know what lies around the next bend until we start moving forward.  We certainly may find a few more opportunities for tears along the way, and I will remember my Grandfather’s words.  Sometimes crying is OK.  I remember how he cried when my Grandmother died…I had never seen him cry and I have never seen anythng like it since.  Washington Irving had this to say: “There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are messengers of overwhelming grief…and unspeakable love.”  My Grandfather cried…oh, how he cried.  He cried because he knew.  So I may cry for just a few minutes more tonight, but then I’ll dry my face and save a few…just in case I need some when I’m older.