Practicing the Art of Crying

We have a lot to cry about right now....well, at least our bodies constantly tell us we do.

The oldest is on his second day spiking 104 fever in the evenings...but nothing wrong enough to warrant antibiotics. One is being treated for pneumonia as he coughs on everything and everyone around him. And one is not terribly sick but still pathetic enough to dissolve into tears at the slightest perceived injustice. And then there's me. M-A-M-A. I hear them cough throughout the night. I hear them wake up in tears because their bodies hurt. I feel their excessive heat instantly warm me as I draw them close. And I go to them, sometimes staying to stroke a never-still forehead until I hear the breathing of sleep as he rests beneath the coolness of my fingers.

I have more paying school work to do this week than ever before in my life. If anyone should cry, it should be me. But that just seems silly. And besides, there's not enough Kleenex for me to join in the boo hoo fray.

No, the real crying is done over one of "my people" put in some forgotten hiding place, a stolen cup from a make-believe tea party, or who owns the purple bear.

This evening was a true mourning event as I took said purple bear and shoved him atop the television, hoping to end the bickering.

Instead, they all ran crying to my husband for anti-mommy support. Covered in crying children, he suddenly said, "That's not crying. Naah. That's a whimper. I was some real angst! Like this..."

At that point, he belted out the loudest, most obnoxiously fake boo hoo I've ever seen.

While Emerson didn't join in, pretty soon, both Amelia and Wyatt were practicing their crying, too."Ahhhhhhhhhhh" they yelled.

Down I fell down on my knees in uncontrollable laughter.And miraculously, no more tears. Just lots and lots of happy laughter....and lots of fake crying.

I'll take it.