Sunday, April 13, 2014

These Are Not Tears of Joy

I have never been one to cry. Sure, I had my moments, my meltdowns. That kind of crying was about me or the general unfairness of life. My tears had very little to do with hypotheticals or commericals.  

Then I went and had a baby and it's like some switch went off inside me, and I can't handle anything.

It's not that I can't handle life or anything that's just...

You know how they say that when you have a child, it's like letting a piece of your soul walk around outside your body?

So, having a child is like that, but that piece of my soul was broken off, leaving a tender little nerve that cannot deal with everyday news. This whole "kids who aren't getting vaccinated are ruining the world, and your baby might get the measles or mumps, and that means you'll never have grandkids" thing in the news right now? Well, that is what I can't handle.  I read or see or hear stories about children getting sick or maimed, or mothers dying of cancer when their babies are six weeks old, and I can't handle it.

I want to crawl into some safe little corner of the world, take my husband, toddler, and dog with me, and never worry about anything ever again.

That's what it feels like to have a baby.

I know this isn't possible. I know that we have to live in the world. I know that, for the most part, things will be okay.

So, I let Ari run at the park, watch as he trips and falls, and let him pull himself on up to his own two feet.

I get a sitter and go on a date with my husband.

I go to work.

I live my life.

I pray.

And I try not to give in to the urge to read the horror stories people keep posting on Facebook.

Because, seriously?

That little raw edge that opened up when the little Ari shaped part of my soul wandered off to become its own person can't handle the horrific cautionary tales that are maybe (hopefully) urban legends.

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