My two year old takes my head into her tiny little hands. She brushes her hand over my cheek, stares at it, wondering why her hand is wet.
“Mommy, you sad? Why you cry?”
I’m crying, because I dropped your brother off at his first day camp today. He was nervous, and I don’t think I handled it well.
I’m crying, because I told him I’d stay until he was comfortable, but it became clear that that was making it worse, so I decided to leave.
I’m crying, because he sounded like an animal in a leg trap when I walked out of that room. By the way his cries were muffled, I could tell the counselor was holding him back, and he was screaming into her shoulder.
I’m crying, because none of the other kids were crying.
I’m crying, because I’m convinced child molesters are waiting around every corner.
I’m crying, because I sent a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for his lunch. No one does that anymore; peanuts are verboten everywhere. What the hell was I thinking?
I’m crying, because I’m mad at your brother, for not magically adapting well to new situations.
I’m crying, because I never make the right decision. I’m not very good at this mom thing. There’s no way to measure performance as a mother. But other people will see his meltdown as a measure of my skills.
I’m crying, because I can’t just relax and enjoy this rare time alone with you.
I’m crying, because I love you both so god damn much.