Big Girls Do Cry

“I got a owie at Nama and Nampa’s house,” she says, pointing at her knee. A fresh scrape peeks out from behind a purple Dora band-aid.

“Oh, I bet that hurt,” I reply. “Did you cry?”

She frowns. Hesitates. “Only a little bit.”

Oh, my heart.

Four months ago Molly was born and I cried for two months straight. This is what my body and brain do after I have babies; they crumble, unable to carry the fear and the responsibility and the love – oh, the love – all at once. I cried … and Savannah saw me.

Which, of course, made me cry more. “I’m scarring her,” I told Geoff on more than one occasion, certain that my weakness was causing her the kind of emotional damage that would surface twenty years later in a therapist’s office. The cold kind, where the chairs are too rigid and the lights are too bright.

And yet.

I am not exempt from sadness because I’m a mother.

Women are encouraged to be strong. Certainly, I want this for my own daughters. Be tough, my darlings. Nourish and trust that inner strength. Always.

But world, if you’re listening, please don’t tell them vulnerability is shameful. Don’t tell them it’s wrong to feel weak.

Savannah and Molly, if you’re listening, please know that you’re already strong.

She’s picking quietly at the band-aid now.

I kneel down, pull her close.

“It’s okay if you cried,” I whisper. “Sometimes Mommy cries too.”

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