The Crying Game (Without the Surprise Ending)

I had a thought today. (I try to refrain from having too many, especially during the summer.)

Here’s what precipitated it. My dad loves sending me (and my mom and brother) articles to read. He does it many times throughout the day. I am an avid reader, but sometimes reading books with 4 kids is impossible. Articles are great because they are short but can be very impactful. My favorites are usually ones from the New York Times, one of my most favorite publications. 

But I digress. 

The articles can be about any and everything. In a day, he’ll send me an article about current events, something nostalgic, some scientific breakthrough, etc. I confess I don’t read all of them because I don’t always have time. 

One that he sent me was about Fred Rogers. I grew up watching Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. I have heard so many great things about Mister Rogers (or Mister Rog, as my brother referred to him). On Sunday, I happened to have a few moments and started reading the article about him. 

For reasons I don’t quite understand, the article moved me to tears. I couldn’t pinpoint exactly why, but reading about how he interacted with both the author and just with people in general affected me a great deal. 

Recently, as I have battled mightily with depression, I have shed many tears. As the tears start to fall, I ask myself, “what is *wrong* with me? Why am I crying about (insert circumstance, person, place here).

Today, as I was lying down for a nap, a different thought occurred to me. 

“How wonderful that I am created that way. How wonderful that I am moved just by words on a screen.”

Years ago, when Brian and I were first dating, he took me to downtown Chicago. We started dating around Christmas time, and so the city was all lit up. We turned onto Michigan Avenue and as we did, the sight of all the trees decorated and lit up made me start crying. It was spontaneous. It was sincere.

I cry every single time I see Bekah dance. 

I cry about TV shows (when Lexie died, when Kevin lost his necklace at the girl’s house, when Michael Scott left to be with Holly).

I cry about military families being reunited.

I cry when deaf people get to hear again. 

I cry when men cry. 

I cry when I am frustrated because my kids’ clothes are on the floor (especially if I have asked them more than once, in a very Mary Poppins way, and refrained from asking them “what the actual fuck!”)

In short, I cry. It is how I am wired. It’s how the excess emotions escape my body. It’s not a defect, as the negative narrative in my mind would have me believe. 

Conversely, I laugh very easily. I would be useless at judging a stand-up contest, because I pretty much laugh at any and everything. I snort when I laugh heartily, and that’s when you know it’s really a party. 

I am fairly certain, as I write this, that I’ve written about this before, so I beg forgiveness for subjecting my readers to repetition. It bears mentioning, though, that sometimes there are long pauses between epiphanies. Sometimes, one needs to learn something over and over in order to have it really sink in. 

I watched an episode of Mister Rogers Neighborhood with my kids today. None of them immediately asked for more, but it was enjoyable, sitting with them and talking about the theme of the episode. It was such a simple show and yet so thought-provoking. It sparked some good conversation between Bekah and me. 

I would encourage you, if you need to slow down with your kids (and your brain will literally break if you hear “Baby Shark” one more time), to go to YouTube and find some full-length episodes to watch together. Turn off all other devices and just enjoy it.

Oh, and it’s okay if after that peaceful family moment, you lose your shit about the clothes on the floor. School’s starting soon, hang in there.