My eyes are puffy today. Not because of my recently diagnosed dry-eye -- a condition that I still cannot mention with a straight face -- but because I had a complete sob-fest last night, brought on when I looked at one of the cut-out hands that I put in Sweet Boy's bday thank you cards.
It flashed across my mind that I had not traced and cut out his hand for his 1 or 2yo birthdays. And the tears just burst out of my otherwise overdry eyeballs. Uncontrollably. Seriously...like someone had just died. It was right before bed, too, and Big Daddy was all wtf about it (which I don't fault him for...he tried to console me, but the only words I could eke out were "his...little... hands! Won't...get that...back!" and I know when he saw the cut-out hand in my hand, he thought, uh oh, irrationality alert!), so I ended up sitting in the sunroom in the dark crying until I couldn't breathe anymore.
As I write this, I'm cringing now at the pitifulness of the scene. So pitiful that even the cats kept their distance!
I hadn't had a good cry in months, so maybe i just needed the release. But really, am I going to be a crying mess all throughout his life? Because the kid is going to keep growing up! Whether I like it or not. And I most likely will not be able to document every small change, no matter how many photos or journal entries I write. And I will most likely always feel guilty that I rush through every day without truly paying attention to the details, and I will most likely always regret that I yell at him so often, and I will most likely always feel inadequate as a parent. So get a grip, woman!
This is another reminder that I become more like my mother every friggin day. A realization that might have contributed to the sob-fest, really. I can handle inheriting personality traits, because you have some control over that, right? I mean, I can choose whether or not I want to say things like "Do you want me to give you something to cry about?" or whether I grit my teeth when I discipline my child. But I can't control the medical conditions or physiological breakdowns that I am bound to inherit.
Around this time every year I get all macabre and melancholy about the dying-young thing. And obviously with every year that passes, I feel it more distinctly and dwell on it a little more. Because 47 is way closer than it used to be! Apparently my eye doctor's comments about medical ailments being hereditary hit a nerve deeper than I'd realized. Don't worry...as far as I know, there is no direct medical connection between dry-eye and cancer, just in case you're wondering. Evidently, though, it's the leap that my neurotic subconscious made.