I've spent this whole gloomy, chilly day reading aloud a harrowingly vivid description of a distraught eighteen year old mother frantically kissing her baby goodbye on the gallows, as she was about to be hanged for some petty thievery, which she committed only because she was starving to death and her milk supply had dried up.
Mark Twain? You suck. For real. Awesome writing, and all, but oh, it sucked.
I had to read that chapter over and over today, and not once did I make it through without my voice breaking and my vision blurring.
Sad things...make me sad. Really sad. I can't handle it. Left to my own devices, I skim over any parts that are so pathetic that even the hangman has to look away. I hide my eyes, I switch the channel, I change the subject. Because I just can't. Motherhood has made it worse, and pregnancy makes it worse times a million.
It's a fine line between coping with real life and shutting it out entirely. I struggle with it. Probably most of the time I err on the side of selfishly shutting out too much, I think.
But some days are gloomy and chilly and you can't skim over something when you have to read it aloud to rooms full of teenagers, you have to soldier through and then lead a thoughtful discussion. Some days are just weepy days and your husband can't do anything more than hug you tight for a minute before taking his team to a basketball game for the entire evening. Some evenings the best you can do is turn on the Pandora station and light all the candles and give your daughters paper dolls and explain that sometimes Mama just cries, but that's okay and how about some macaroni and cheese for dinner since the boys are gone?
Some days start with teary, dream-fueled anxiety attacks at five in the morning and carry straight on through in the same vein no matter how much tea and bright red lipstick you might try to cheer them up with.
And...some days that's okay. Maybe after the macaroni and cheese and the letter-sound flashcards and storytime and pajamas and teeth brushing and bedtime song requests, maybe after all that, I'll put on some gratuitously weepy movie and bundle myself into bed and just cry.
Strangely, that sounds completely perfect.