Crying with my hands
I wept the moment I saw the school director’s sympathetic face.
“Are you OK?” she asked.
“Could I get a hug?” I asked, eyes suddenly overflowing.
“Sure,” the director answered while walking around her desk.
After she hugged me, we talked briefly about the dozens of logistics I’m constantly juggling mentally as my older son prepares to start first grade next month.
As things stand, the school that’s been my second home for two and a half years will no longer be my second home. My Li’l D will go to school somewhere else, somewhere close to home–aka, far from my office.
I can only barely tolerate my three-hour drive today because I share half of it with my sweet, boy-shaped chatterbox; I dread even imagining it without him. Without his silly questions and his earnest ones mixed in with giggles and sighs of exasperation, that long, slow drive will be emptier. An already disheartening 10.5 hours away from him daily will morph into a crushing twelve. I will be away from home and away from him one-half of every single day.
My husband is sad and grumpy between jobs. When he does start his next job, it will also require he drive three hours away–the opposite direction. We can’t both keep driving six hours daily forever, but there’s no quick escape from those six total hours of traffic torment.
I’m witnessing other changes unfold and wondering how I make my life be more comfortable now, not two or ten years from now. (I don’t need suggestions; I process and discard potential solutions at a rate of 20 per second.)
I finally thought up one solution that might ripple out to lessen total stress, but I have to get approval. Which I’m seeking.
But what’s the point of this all, even?
It felt so good crying with my eyes earlier, just letting it flow, that I hoped it might feel half as good to cry with my hands.
My shoulders do feel a little lighter, but I’d still wager I’ll soothe myself to sleep tonight
reminding myself that even Amazons cry.