Please Pass the Puffs

A sap. I have always been one, and was forced to suffer the embarrassment of it for many years.

As a child I was aware how easily other people’s behaviors affected me. When a stranger smiled at me, I involuntarily smiled back. I observed some children stick up their noses and turn their heads, and wished I could do that. I would try, but the best I could muster was to hide my face and hope they hadn’t seen my weakness. If I sneaked a peek and they were still smiling, I was cooked.

Even today, sad movies make me cry. I’m really only interested in feel-good movies and chick flicks, and I complain insincerely when tear-jerkers send me over the edge. I kept this personality fault in the closet for all of junior high and most of high school, and in college I avoided situations that would trigger a reaction. As I said, it was embarrassing!

Eventually it was just me and other adults dealing with my over-sappism, and I benefited from their politeness. My peers blamed the cold season for my sniffling during the last ten minutes of any Movie of the Week, and I was grateful for their forgiving dispositions. It seemed that I was doomed to cry during sad movies, or when reading or even hearing a sappy story.

Being a mother added a new audience to this behavior. I thought I had a kindred spirit, observing The Dot at three-years-old watching a movie about a seal. In the end, the seal had to be put back into the ocean, and the little boy in the movie cried. There was plenty of violin music to emphasize the travail, and The Dot, my pride and joy, blubbered. Sis-tah!

The little traitor turned on me, though. In possession of some of Hubba’s stoic genes, she cultivated the ability to reach down inside and choke off the tear bulb. By the time she was eight, she had developed Mom-tear radar. Anytime a song on the radio, or (heaven forbid) something on the big screen down at The Viking Theater got a little hokey, The Dot would turn her chin-set, stubborn face towards me, bring it close, and all but dare me to whimper. Big deal, I thought. I am woman, hear me cry. Deal with it, Dot.

She refused to watch Beaches with me. She was uptight for years about the spectacle I’d made when The Viking screened My Girl. Unfortunately for her, the new elementary principal was sitting behind us, and I had pestered him for his spare popcorn napkin. To make matters worse, I honked into it while caterwauling, “This just isn’t fair! The only purpose of this movie is to make people cry! What abusive cruelty!”

The worm began to turn about five years ago. I had suggested The Dot keep an eye out for the old Bette Davis movie, Dark Victory, remembering it had a powerfully cleansing effect on me when I was her age. Something in her demeanor had led me to believe that she was more comfortable with her share of my DNA, and I wanted to test that. We finally found it on cable one day. Oh, yeah. She bawled like a newborn.

These days she is more comfortable with a spectrum of emotions. She isn’t embarrassed by my sappiness, because I think she gets it: openly expressing deep feelings is a double-dip into the vulnerable pot. Only those with whom we feel safe will witness a display.

The Dot and I spent significant time recently, talking about how we have each changed through the years. She had been home for awhile, preparing for a move to Chicago. What fun to reminisce about how funny I thought she was at age three, and how funny she thought I was when she was thirteen! It pleased us to speak of our family’s close ties, and we agreed that we don’t take it for granted. We mentally high-five each other every day, wherever we are. It’s cool. So cool.

One day before she left, I came into the kitchen and discovered my daughter weeping. Big fat tears, brimming from hazel eyes that appeared greener with each drop.

“What’s wrong?”

She tried to speak, but instead fanned her hands through the air as though to dry newly-polished nails. She turned her head, shaking it as though she could bring back common sense with the motion.

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m excited about my move, but I’ve had such a good time being at home. This is like the feeling I had when summer camp was over.”

She wasn’t sad, she told me, she was grateful. She wasn’t upset, she was happy. There are times when adults just cry, and she had outgrown her need for protective, chin-setting denial. The world, you know, needs people who are tender-hearted.

Uh-huh. My work here is done. Please pass the Puffs.

Copyright © Kari E.O. Burns, February 2006