“There, there, don’t cry,” the words we use to offer comfort.  After many years and very few tears, I’ve come to know the real comfort of a good cry.  For men, after around ten or so, there are few excuses for tears, and I had never seen a grown man cry until one day in a group therapy session; it was painful, let me tell you. I can only hope he felt better afterwards, because I was pretty shaken up. 

Raising two sons, the issue has arisen, especially when they were younger.  The older one was a happy baby who cried only until he got his food for the most part.  He didn’t care much about a dirty diaper, and he enjoyed going to sleep, and waking up.  His one aberration was what we called, “sympathy crying”, when another kid was hurt or upset.  My son’s face would cloud over, and soon enough he joined the chorus. Our younger son was born with a more contrary view of the world, and was more likely to cry when cranky, and for longer periods of time. He may have been colicky, with a bad period between five and ten at night for a while.  It passed, but the sensitivity remained, and tears would spring at the “unfairness of the world”.  In public, I was prone to hush my boys after a minor injury or a quarrel; in private, I tended to hug them and murmur consolations. My husband had little patience for tears, and told them in clear language, “Suck it up.”  But there were times I was tempted to say, “Go ahead.  Get it out.”

Because for so long, years and years, I didn’t cry. Not a crier.  Mainly to do with a kind of stoicism, I think, and probably trying not to upset my mother when we were kids. I don’t remember crying when my aunt told me that my father had died; somehow I knew that news was coming. The grief went somewhere down deep that I lost access to. For all those years, I missed the benefit of crying my heart out when I was sad or disappointed.  However, I am not superhuman, and there were times the tears did fall — just not at the right times.  Once, as a young adult in the dentist’s chair, a little poke in the gum caused a trickle of tears that opened a floodgate that I could not close.  The dentist’s efforts to console me – a glass of water, a towel — only added to the trouble.  I sobbed so hard, he couldn’t continue working. I wasn’t mature enough to say, “Just give me a moment to collect myself.”  He tried everything, and finally brought in the hygienist. Poor man.

Then there was the time with Donald, before kids, we were sitting on the sofa after dinner watching Jerry Seinfeld’s comedy routine – even before Friends, I think.  It was about how socks cling to the side of the washer, hiding out, so to speak – silly.  I started laughing hard, so hard that tears came to my eyes and then I was sobbing and sobbing and couldn’t stop.  Donald was stumped.  I couldn’t speak, and even if I could, I didn’t know how to explain it myself. Something to do with the safety of being in that room on that sofa with him.  He sat next to me until I stopped, saying pretty much nothing. Afterwards, I could only say “sorry about that.”  He could have been, should have been, spooked by his new bride, but that was the end of it.

Until kids, and more tears and more emotions. And some therapy.  Once the well was primed, the tears started coming, mostly when they were supposed to. Trouble is, I got leaky, tearring over strange and sentimental stories in the paper, ads on TV, even a corny line from a song or poem.  My younger son and I watched old reruns of “Full House” religiously for a period of time; he was around 8 or 9.  On cue, at a certain point in the show, when the music is swelling, and someone is apologizing, he would come up next to me to examine my face for those tell-tale tracks.  “Are you crying?” he would ask. And I would nod to confirm. 

Still today, for the big and bad things of life, “automatic control” part of me takes over that helped to negotiate a childhood where much of the time sadness was a still and silent experience.  I’m happy that my boys are freer to express their anger, hurt, frustration, as well as their happiness and joy. I’m not thrilled by their swearing, but I understand it helps them cope.  I just wish they could enjoy a good cry now and then.