I\u2019m a crybaby, always have been. Whenever I see anything remotely emotional on TV or in a newspaper, I crack. First I\u2019ll try to suppress my emotions: breathing slowly, keeping my jaw clenched and my lips pursed. Soon there\u2019s no keeping it in, and I\u2019ll give in and let the waterworks flow. It\u2019s always a struggle, one I can\u2019t win and will never quite be comfortable with. After watching Terms of Endearment I spent an entire day sporting swollen red eyes. Luckily it was a Sunday because, without fail, after the sobbing fits comes the shame, especially when I\u2019m in public. Maybe the shame feels even worse than the crying.
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My father quickly became used to it and was always ready to hand me a big handkerchief. I had to share it with my mother, who was even more emotional than me. It became a sort of ritual, making it more fun. Crying was abided with family present. My father was an emotional man. I remember a book he owned about the Second World War titled \u201cThe day my father cried\u201d. The title alone impacted me greatly. Fathers aren\u2019t supposed to cry. I have seen my father cry twice and it flat out scared me. Something terrible must have happened when one\u2019s father cries. My brother is as emotional as my father.<\/p>\n
My own family is far less emotional. I lose control even faster now that I\u2019ve become sick. I cry about the smallest things, like a Dutchman winning a gold medal for ice skating, my team winning a football game or Adrie van der Poel getting out of the water after a swimming competition. In addition, the likes sad animated films, cute pedagogic TV shows or saying goodbye to my daughter who\u2019s leaving for a week of camp never fail to make me weep. My children know the signs well: shaky breathing and pursed lips. At once, two pairs of children\u2019s eyes bore into me. \u201cNo, mum, not again.\u201d The children will block the TV screen, take away my newspaper, pull funny faces to distract me or look at me with judging expressions. The only way to get their permission to return to my emotion-evoking activities is to solemnly swear to not cry. In an environment like that, fighting the tears is even more important and a lot harder. <\/p>\n
When I cry during conversation, I am met with more tolerance. My son dries my tears and tells me: \u201cdon\u2019t talk about that, mum\u201d. My husband\u2019s handkerchief has been offered to me countless times. It\u2019s a big one, like my dad\u2019s. <\/p>\n
I really do need to get my crying fits under control when it\u2019s about trivial things. Recently I even cried when watching a sad scene in a soap show. My daughter immediately took action and sternly told me: \u201cmum, it\u2019s only a soap\u201d. She\u2019s right, of course. Then again, try telling that to my tears. <\/p>\n
February 1999
\nJeanet van der Vlist, Leiden<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I\u2019m a crybaby, always have been. Whenever I see anything remotely emotional on TV or in a newspaper, I crack. First I\u2019ll try to suppress my emotions: breathing slowly, keeping my jaw clenched and my lips pursed. Soon there\u2019s no keeping it in, and I\u2019ll give in and let the waterworks flow. It\u2019s always a … <\/p>\n