I choked up at the gas station today when I heard the Graduation March. Is it possible to dread empty nest syndrome, when my daughter hasn’t even graduated preschool yet? I’m such a sap. And, the sap is now seeping out of my pores, since we cut the cord. Somewhere Kleenex is making a killing off of all of the new, crying Mothers out there. We have to shop at Costco, just to keep up.
Gas pumps are getting really high tech. They play videos and music. When I was a kid, if you filled up your tank at a place where there was a promo going on and after standing in line, you were lucky if you got a free doll whose dress was a toilet paper cover. And, we were pretty excited about this. But, then again, that was when we used to climb back and forth over the seats in our station wagon, while my dad was driving in an ice storm without chains. The seat belts were literally just a pain in the ass.
The Samsonites under my eyes aren’t just from lack of sleep anymore, but a product of all of this damn sap. The other day I watched the Keira Knightly version of Pride and Prejudice and cried with Mr. Bennet, when he gave Elizabeth his blessing to marry Mr. Darcy. It’s a romantic movie, but my tears were made from the wonder I had of my daughter someday telling me she had met her match. This makes my husband cry too, but more because I think he quietly hopes his baby will never be a babe to anyone.
When we watched Twilight and Charley cocked his gun in front of Edward, my husband giggled like a school boy. I’m pretty sure he secretly shops for guns after watching that scene. After all, for him, it’s never too early to prepare for a possible shakedown.
I choke up every time I watch a singing reality show (and there are a lot of them). I don’t particularly like them, but Game of Thrones and Californication aren’t exactly G, for after-dinner TV time. So, that’s what we end up and unwind with. Every time some kid makes it to the next round, there’s a parent balling in their seat. Again, I’m a sap, so I cry along with the rest of the motherly chorus out there.
Then, there was the day that my daughter (let’s call her Babyface from now on, because that is who she is to me), told me I wasn’t her best friend anymore because I wanted her to use the potty AGAIN. She was so deliberate in her delivery. I was proud, but it cut like a letter opener…slow, slow, slow, but still painful, nonetheless.
I did the toilet room cry, where I let out a muffled gasp and Charmin reaped the benefits from my overuse of their product (I also now shop for toilet paper at Costco). The toilet room is where I go, when I don’t want her to see me have a meltdown. It’s the only place I can pretend I’m not a Mommy for five seconds or get a few minutes of uninterrupted peace. I love my damn potty room. Sometimes I want to bring my iPhone in there and stay as long as my husband does when he’s taking care of business. Really? Pooping isn’t an hour pastime, buddy. I really hope it’s his iPhone he’s playing with.
I just hope all of this crying stays innocent and blissful, yet bittersweet. I hope that it is never worthy of a weekly show like 48 Hours Mystery or Dateline. I love those shows, but I don’t want to be the leading lady or even a supporting character in one…ever.