Finally!

When I am sad, I cry.  Not often but I do.
I cry when I am moved and emotionally touched.
When I laugh these days, I cry  . And if I am really laughing, sometimes I pee.
And, maybe it is the female in me, but when I am frustrated, I cry. 

And when I have one of those really, really tough situations, I might lose my composure and cry. 

My bff will call me and it will be one of those really tough situations and she will say, "you know, I just didn't want to cry."

Tears are not a sign of weakness.  They are a sign of feelings and passion. 

After seven arrests in 14 months, my son has yet to shed a tear, lose his composure or even let his voice crack.

And it has bothered me immensely.  I simply cannot get passed it.  Not one tear?  Really?  Just recently I got pulled over by a state trooper, I lost it.  I broke down and sobbed like a lunatic.  Walker held my hand through the whole thing.  He has never seen my cry like this before.  It wasn't the ticket, it was my life.  The damn broke.  I lost it.  And, maybe it was the little hand that got me through it, but I recovered.  It was just a speeding ticket though.  I am old and mature and on the grand scheme of things it was nothing.  I sobbed like a teenage girl after a big break up over a ticket.

The "button" has more problems than a Chinese math book and nothing.

Today, I went to see the "button."  I did not want to go.  It was a holiday and I knew it would be packed.  Ugh.  And quite frankly, the visits are like Charlie Brown's teacher, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

But I went.  Sure enough, when I arrived, I felt like I was waiting in line for a Taylor Swift concert.  Packed.  Standing room only. 

I signed in and stood against the wall.  Typically, there is a group or two that goes upstairs in the elevator to visit.  It is a fifteen visit, usually, and it with everyone else.  It is loud and horrible.

The guard announces that there will be a third group.  I knocked people over getting to the desk to say, "I will go up in the third group.

The advantage of being a summer camp frequent flier is that you get to know the ropes. 

Up all the groups and down the groups came.  Nine out the ten moms and grandmas come down crying.  While I wasn't there, I am pretty sure those tears weren't caused by jokes. 

Anyway, it was finally my turn.  Again, it doesn't matter how many times you see this, you are never prepared.

But, bonus, it was just me.  There was nobody else.  Just me.  And here comes the "button." 

I didn't  lead the conversation this time.  I let him.  He was very chatty, but a very nervous chat. 

I mentioned that I noticed that he had two names on the list to visit him.  One was a family friend that the "button" adores.  I told him that it was a holiday and it was hard for people to come today.  He put his head in his hands and started talking.  I had to say, "hey, I cannot hear you. Please look up at me."

Finally, there they were, big crocodile tears.  No jokes, no hearty laughs, just big, fat tears and they were streaming.

"I just don't want her to see me like this, I am so ashamed, so embarrassed and so sad."  Finally, the damn was broke. 

There were fists slammed and tears.  And words and finally feelings.  Finally.

There was talk of hopes and dreams and lost opportunities and poor choices and bad friends and horribly, wrong actions.  And then again, hopes and dreams and boxer shorts.  "I just want a pair of boxer shorts and to smell something in an oven."

Tears.  Plenty of them.  And I was glad.  Instead of the fifteen minute visit, I got 32 minutes.  And he crammed a ton into those 32 minutes.  When a boy starts talking, you need to listen.  And I did.  He said, "I just lay there at night and think over and over and over and ask myself a million questions.  There is nobody to blame.  This is mine."

Finally, the guard stepped forward and said, "Dude, we need to wrap this up." 

My son put his hand on the glass and for the second time ever, I put my hand up.  And then, he fell apart.  I could  just stand and watch.

The hardest thing for a mom is to watch a child hurt and cry and know that you cannot do a thing about it. 

And I did.

He walked away and the guard looked at me with that " you did the right thing and he needs you" look.  The guard was a class act.

I walked out into the sunshine.  I had tears in my eyes too.  Finally, I was emotionally moved.

This is far from over but those tears finally  gave me the hope that I have been searching.