Don’t mind me, it’s just the radio
Once upon a time, I never cried. Well, hardly ever. I was raised
with three brothers, and then I went into journalism, two
situations where emotional females are frowned upon.
Don’t mind me, it’s just the radio
Once upon a time, I never cried. Well, hardly ever. I was raised with three brothers, and then I went into journalism, two situations where emotional females are frowned upon.
Then at age 29, I got pregnant. And started crying at the drop of a hat.
It got so that anything could make me misty-eyed during that time. I remember in particular a commercial for AT&T that featured parents talking to their children on the phone.
“God, it’s so beautiful! I hope my kids talk to me like that someday!” I thought, and the tears flowed like the Amazon.
At that moment, I remember thinking that I had really gone over the edge of all reason.
You could blame the extreme hormonal situation. However, whatever happened while I was with child is still happening today. I haven’t been pregnant for a long time, and I am still crying at the stupidest things.
It’s a mom thing, I guess.
I really don’t mind the crying all that much. It’s just that it’s so infernally sneaky. It comes on me at the oddest times, and typically when I’m least expecting it.
It doesn’t take much to get me all emotional. One of my children getting an award, for instance. Or one of my friend’s children getting an award. Or just about anyone getting an award.
When our puppy was sick and in the veterinary hospital, I cried. When I got to the end of a particular book, “A Prayer for Owen Meany,” I cried for 10 minutes.
Stories about children that I hear on the news really get to me. Terminally ill kids. Missing kids. Kids who dial 911 and save somebody.
Certain TV shows and commercials also manage to reduce me to a puddle of goo. Movies, of course, get me going – typically the tearjerkers, but sometimes others as well. (“Million Dollar Baby” was a three-hanky experience for me.)
And songs can be especially deadly.
A few years ago, we were driving home from a little trip to the mountains, and listening to a Dixie Chicks CD. There is a song they sing that I find excruciatingly sad, “Travelin’ Soldier,” about a soldier going off to war and the girl he leaves behind. I had heard the song before, but for some reason, this time it really got to me.
I’m driving, and all of a sudden I’m crying so hard that it’s difficult to see the road.
Of course, my children are oblivious to all this, as I’m wiping my eyes and blowing my nose, and still managing to keep a hand on the steering wheel. Luckily, we’re on a rural highway and there isn’t much traffic.
The song ended, other songs came along, and it appeared that whatever floodgates had opened were now closed. I relaxed.
Then the CD started over. That song came around again. And I’ll be darned if I didn’t start crying – again.
This time, Ross noticed.
“Uh, Mom?” he said. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I said, wiping my eyes. “Do you mind – can we skip this song?”
Songs are still doing it to me. Every few weeks, one will pop up and trash me. “When September Ends,” by Green Day. “Live Like You Were Dying,” by Alan Jackson. “Give My Love to Rose,” by Johnny Cash, quite possibly the saddest song ever written in the 20th Century.
So if you see me driving and crying, you’ll know why. It’s probably just something I’m listening to.
