Tag Archives: tears

Here’s to shedding some tears.

This post also appeared on Everyday Exiles.

I’m a mom of three. I’m a wife. I’m a friend, sister, daughter, writer, singer, colleague, and foodie. Which of those things says I should cry a lot?

Apparently all of them.

Recently, I’ve found that I cry at almost everything. Things my friends say. Books I read. Podcasts I’m listening to (I’m looking at you, Annie F. Downs!). Songs I sing, or hear on the radio. Literally every time I crack open my Bible. It’s a lot. Am I too emotional about some stuff? Maybe. Am I going through something difficult? I don’t know. Probably. Aren’t we all?

Recently, my boys (ages 3.5 and 2) got their first “official” haircuts. They went to see my dad’s barber, in my hometown, as my parents’ house was literally going under contract that afternoon. It was a lot – an emotional day. There were some tears involved, and rightly so. My 11-year-old self was looking around, appreciating the house I’d grown up in for the first time. My 15-year-old self was remembering sleepovers and cramming for exams and late night ice cream sundaes. My 20-year-old self was wondering why I came home from college for the summer, because it was a little boring comparatively, but actually loving the slowness. My 31-year-old self (at present) was wishing my kids would grow up vacationing to that pool and huge front yard forever, and wishing that we had been able to come “home” a little more often.

You see? Tears flowing, even now, weeks later.

Call it hormones. Call it motherhood. Call it “too soft”. But I’m a crier now, more than I ever was. But I know that it just means that Jesus is softening my heart to some things that I haven’t been softened to before… Relationships with incredible women in my life. Shoes that are quite big that it’s my job to fill. My headstrong daughter with ideas all her own, my sensitive middle child with a need for a schedule and some sugar, and my baby, who I equally want to rush into independence and coddle forever. I am torn, in limbo between the already and the not yet, unsure of how to proceed. And then I sit and cry.

I’m not ashamed. I’m really not. I joke about it a lot – and you can call that my coping mechanism. But I really don’t feel bad about the tears I shed. Because it means that I care, I feel deeply, and I love big. I’m okay with those things, because it means I got those traits from Jesus. He cared. He felt deeply. He loved big. And if, in me, it manifests as tears, I’ll take it.

My Son’s First Haircut: A Total Toddler Travesty

This post also appeared on My Big Jesus!

These things happen, they say.

You’ll look back and laugh about it, they say.

Well, I cried about it.

We had just come back from a quick overnight trip to the mountains. We had mostly unpacked, the kids were playing with their toys we’d left behind (because 24 hours away makes them seem new!) and Hubby and I both had some work to get done. While he started getting ready for his gig, I retreated to my computer to do some work for my service on Sunday. I was probably out of the room (the living room… where everyone else was) for about seven or eight minutes total, when I came back through the house.

EK saw me coming and happily shouted, “Mom! I’m cutting Jophiss’ hair!”

I wasn’t alarmed yet. She often took a plastic toy knife and sawed away at her own or her brother’s hair, jabbering on about haircuts. But I quickly saw that this time, there was no pretend sawing happening. My pink-handled scissors from the kitchen drawer were being used to strew my son’s perfectly virgin curls all over the floor. Tears welled up in my eyes as I realized what couldn’t be taken back: he had just received his first haircut. No little ceremony, no taking pictures, no sweet, little-boy ‘do resulted from this experience. Just a jagged chunk taken from over his left eye. And now? Nothing left to do but just take that line all the way across his forehead.

So sitting in the floor, tears blurring my eyes (safety first!) I took the blasted scissors, and finished the job. Of course, he figured he didn’t need to sit still for me, so it took a couple of tries to get a semi-straight line of “bangs” across his big noggin. (I want you to know I’m still crying a little as I write this.)

 A couple of days later, we’d started to get used to his new look. At least we didn’t have to swoop the bangs over to get them out of his eyes, right? Anyway, one evening J took a big spill and bonked his forehead on a door, right between his eyes. After I got him calmed down, gave him some Tylenol to ease the blow, got him snuggled in my lap and his whimpering stopped, I only had one thing to say. I looked up at my worried mother-in-law, who had helped me get him calmed down, and said, “Well, if EK hadn’t cut his hair, we wouldn’t even be able to see his giant bruise!”

 Because making light of a stressful situation (even by making fun of a previous stressful situation) can dispel that tension and get a giggle out of even the most concerned grandparent.