If I Cry

If I cry when my daughter says something hurtful to me, does that make me oversensitive? What if we have just returned from grocery shopping, and I am asking for her opinion and she looks down at the not-gracery bag in my hand and asks what it's about? If it's about a certain something, she will say yes, and something else, she will say no. What kind of crap is that? I just sent her prattling about the store, finding whatever little foods she wanted. I just picked her up from her precious dance class. I just fucking gave birth to her and grew her up for the past thirteen fucking years and now I am like the landfill for every hangnail that does not bend in the proper direction for her.

I am wondering why I accepted her parameters on my day tomorrow when it is the yahrzheit of my brother's death (the anniversary)? She does not want to see me crying, but if I happen to cry, well. Well! If I happen to cry!? Don't go all "she's upset too" on me, Reader. I am the Queen of Putting The Kids First and fast becoming the Queen of Regretting Putting The Kids First.

Sometimes I think of Roseanne's old show. That's sick, I know. But the original show was hilarious because she let it all roll off and she knew exactly what her kids were doing to manipulate and even if you do not remember, I do, and maybe the dog does, that she did apologize, and she did care, and she did talk to her kids. In real life, if there is such a thing, of course, she is probably a very screwed up mom. I am pretty sure she is. But in not-real life, she never would have been close to tears because her little mini-teen gave her a mini-slam.

What is with me? Why can't I attain the toughness of an absolutely fictional character? Even as I write this, I know the answer, but really, what the fuck? Why did I let my daughter dictate how I will behave on my brother's yahrzheit? I know why. Because I wish I had been able to control some of what happened four years ago, and I want to pretend for her that she has some control now. My brother's death was a random act of evil and he died with two other wonderful men, just sitting at a red light. She cannot make sense of it, and neither can I. Sometimes she asks why it had to be him. Sounds so cliche, but she wonders.

If I am sobbing my face off, I will go to my room. Otherwise, she will have to deal with my sadness. And if she is sad, and she is crying, of course I will comfort her. That's what I always do.