A soft place to fall

I find myself a little stuck.  I started this blog with the intention of first using it to share the pieces I'd written about losing the boys, and then segueing into writing about motherhood in general.  But the pieces I first posted were written and edited over a period of years.  I'm having a hard time with the idea of simply writing and clicking "publish."  What if it's not *good?*

I've decided to say screw it.  Screw it!  I'm gonna write.  And I'm gonna publish.  And it will be what it will be.

And I'm sorry if it sucks.

Okay.  Deep breath.  Here goes.


I have so many things I want to write about: the kindness people have shown to me since I started this blog, the conversations it has sparked, the many many feelings I've experienced traveling the 10 year gauntlet.  I suppose I will write about each of those in time.  I think the idea I want to tackle first is crying.

In rereading my posts, I noticed several references to the idea of hating to cry.  It struck me as interesting because I have a bit of a reputation in school as being the teacher who cries.  While I can't say I cry often, I'd be willing to bet I cry more often than most teachers...at least in front of the kids.  I warn the kids to be prepared, to know that I'm okay, that I just become so moved that I have no other way to process my emotions but to let them flow out of my eyes.

I cry when reading Chapter 31 of To Kill a Mockingbird.  And I love it.  I love to feel the feels...to allow Scout's emotions - gratitude, regret, pain, wondering, realization - to wash over me.  That words can make one feel so deeply is the reason I love literature as much as I do.  When scheduling my Mockingbird unit, I make sure to leave time to read Chapter 31 aloud in class.  I want the kids to see me cry.  I think it's good for them.

I cry when reading Rudy's death in The Book Thief.  I sob -ugly heaving sobs- when Liesel kisses the boy with the hair the color of lemons.  If ever a day comes when I don't, I'll know my heart has turned to stone because if you can read that and NOT cry, you must be dead.

I cry when students write letters expressing gratitude for All In! or the silliness of B period ELA or writing club.  I cry when I hear stories of 6th grade boys who helped a struggling classmate run the mile.

I cry.  A lot.

So why then, years ago, did I write about not liking to cry? 

I think it has to do with the  reason for the tears, not the tears themselves.  It has to do with the roles that I play and the audience for whom I perform.  When I teach, I am more than a facilitator of curriculum; I am a role model.  I use think alouds when I encounter a problem.  I model grace and good humor when the schedule changes abruptly or when an unexpected roadblock pops up.  I model the self confidence I want my students to have when discussing their passions.  It's cool for 13 year old boys to like football, but what about the gamers?  The computer programers?  The Lego lovers?  I geek out about Jane Austen and Shakespeare to give them a model of someone who loves out loud - regardless of how cool the love may be. So crying at school is okay because it shows my students that feeling emotions is okay.  It's nothing to be ashamed of.

In the rest of my life, however, I'm performing for a different audience.  At home, I'm performing for Anna and Vinnie and, honestly, they get enough drama at their dad's house to no doubt last a lifetime.  I certainly don't need to mope and weep in their presence.  I try to stay calm and steady and reliable for them.  Getting weepy during a TV show or movie is allowed.  Breaking down is not. 

Speaking of breaking down, I did last weekend.  Big time.  I'd been fighting it off...with varying degrees of success...since the days leading up to Mother's Day.  The alignment of Mother's Day with May 10th with 10 years was like three moons pulling my emotions into a tidal wave that threatened to wipe me out.  My biggest fear: that I'd ruin Mother's Day for the kids.  (We do all recognize that Mother's Day is for the kids, right?  It's certainly not for Mothers.  I don't want to have to get dressed up to go to brunch or whatever else moms are supposed to do on Mother's Day.  The ideal Mother's Day gift would be a day alone, no kids or chores or activities, but it's not kosher to say that.  So yeah....anyway.)  But I made it through!  I enjoyed my darlings and we planted flowers and played baseball and went out to lunch and had a lovely day together during which I not once felt to the urge to cry.  Success!

At least until Monday, when I arrived in my classroom to discover:

•  I'd left the desks in the wrong arrangement
• I hadn't updated my homework, agenda, objectives, or warm up
• I hadn't made the copies I'd need for that morning's lesson.  

I was running late because Vinnie couldn't find pants that felt right and Anna decided to wear shoes I'd expressly banned on the advice of her physical therapist.  My students were loud, too many kids needed my attention, and as I changed the date on the board from May 8th to May 11th, tears started to well up in my eyes. 

I managed to squelch the emotion, but it was honestly a scary moment for me.  I felt out of control, and I didn't like it.  It took two full periods before I was finally able to center myself enough to feel safe.  I'm sorry to report I snapped at more than a handful to student in the intervening hour and 40 minutes. 

I came close to losing it few more times over the course of the week, crying once in my car on the 14th, but for the most part I was strong. 

That Friday I went to Jim's.  I brought with me two bottles of wine and he remarked that he didn't remember a time I'd ever brought two bottles.  I said it felt like a two bottle weekend. 

For those of you who don't know, Jim's place is my spa.  He takes care of me from the moment I walk in to the moment I leave.  Every morning I'm there I'm treated to breakfast in bed.  He knows how to make coffee the way I like it.  He cooks delicious meals for me.  Every dinner is eaten by candlelight, even if it's Dominoes Pizza.  When I'm there, there are no expectations.  If I want to lounge in bed and nap the day away, that's okay.  If I want to go to the mall, that's okay.  I don't *have* to do anything.  I get to rest and recharge.  It's lovely. 

So I guess it's no surprise that when I finally *did* break down it was at Jim's, after two nights of relaxation and at least one bottle of wine.  We'd been discussing something completely unrelated, and the conversation got heated.  He said something about his sons' school, I said something about them being less than admirable (the words fucking idiots may or may not have been used), and he reacted.  I reacted to his reaction and before I knew it, I was crying.  Not just tears in my eyes, but full on can't-speak-in-a-normal-voice crying.  He put his hand on my leg and said in the most gentle and sincere voice, "I'm sorry," and I lost it.  I turned into him and cried.  I don't know how long I cried, but I remember trying to mop him up at least twice. 

I was both relieved and horrified.  I know I've cried in front of him before, but I don't think I've ever cried so hard or so long.  And I knew then why my posts referred to my hatred of crying in front of others.  It's because I don't like to appear weak. 

One of the reasons Jim loves me is that I'm capable.  I can think.  I can make decisions.  I can plan ahead.  I know he likes to take care of me, but he also admires that I'm independent.  That image, the one of the strong, independent woman, is one I've taken great pains to cultivate in the years after my divorce.  I don't want people to feel sorry for me.  I don't want to give the impression that I can't do something or that I need help.  There are a precious few to whom I will lower my guard and ask for help.  More often than not I adopt an I've-got-it-all-under-control attitude.

I don't know where this story is headed.  I guess I don't have a nice neat way to wrap it all up.  I have no desire to make sweeping life changes and allow myself to fully feel every emotion that comes my way.  I think I'd cease to be a functioning human being if I did that.  I believe I need to maintain my composure around Anna and Vinnie so they know I'm able to care of them and that they have a safe place to fall when they need it. 

And I'm immensely grateful for Erin, who sees the truth behind my bravado and asks everyday before she goes home "Can I do anything for you?"  And I am so lucky to have Jim - a man who knows that I'm tough and independent and admires me for it.  And at the same time he takes care of me, allows me to be weak, and gives me a soft place to fall.