When the floodgates open.

I have always wanted to be a pretty crier. Since I do so much of it, that only seems fair. One of those girls who can casually let tears roll down their alabaster skin, no redness, weird mouth action or just plain face meltdown. All waterproof all the time. Unfortunately, I am not that, I am the blubbering stuttering crier. And I cry when I am angry, when I am sad, when I am happy. Basically, most of the things that life throws at me make me cry.

Crying is not something “the other” wants to deal with, it is supposed to be kept indoors. I wish I could, but my tears do not care about location. I can just as well bawl my eyes out in bed, as on the bus, or on my morning ferry ride. Bus is good, always someone to discreetly hand me a tissue on hand. But no, it is not pretty, sometimes it is not pretty for days after the actual cry-fest.

This week, is it only Tuesday? was/is a bad bad week. I think I might have lost something that I thought I would never lose and that makes me infinitely sad. The obvious outcome was that I cried for a few too many hours. Of course, at the same time the kid had a tummy pain, so we basically bawled at each other through the night. “Mamaaaa my bumbum hurts!!!”, “Yeeeesss, I know sweety. I know. Life sucks.”

Today I brought the Kid to day-care looking like I was either run over by a truck or got into a box of wine during the night. Swollen eyes, red nose, sort of weirdly red cheeks. Greatly appealing. The staff welcomed me with extra care, like: “is it possible for you to get some sleep today, you look kind of tired/hungover.” “If the Kids belly hurts we will deal with it ourselves, you just get some sleep”. Like I am made of glass. I do feel a bit glasslike, handle with care and all that, so it probably is appropriate.

Of course, I got a call, half an hour later, so I am now writing this, still looking like I got run over by a truck while being vocally attacked by a raging three-year-old. “Stupid mama, stupid mama.” But I am not crying! Promise! Counting my blessings here.

Surprising outcome of this bad bad stuff? My “fuck it” attitude is finally back. Suddenly I care less and therefore drink and smoke more. That might not be too positive, but from experience I know that a little “fuck it” gets me a long way. So, I will be holding on to that for now!