Crying in the Closet

“Mommy’s sick baby.  Sometimes her heart hurts and she doesn’t know why.”

Tears roll down my face as I try to explain to my five-year-old why he found me crying in the closet.  Without questioning, he crawls into my lap, wraps his arms around my neck, and lays his little head on my shoulder, gently rubbing my back as I do to his when I’m comforting him.  My heart explodes as if it isn’t already aching from an inexplicable pain.

Mom guilt floods my system while I choke back tears and pray I can pull myself together.  Because five-year-olds shouldn’t find their mother’s crying in the closet.  With each heave of my chest, he lifts his sweet face and looks inquisitively into my eyes.  I can tell he wants an explanation.  I quickly weigh all my options, as most parents do when presented what feels like a complicated, adult question.

“Mommy’s sick baby.”

I hate the words even as they tumble out of my mouth.  Hurry, don’t let him think you’re dying like in EVERY FREAKING DISNEY MOVIE (Seriously Disney, Why?, Why?).

“Sometimes her heart hurts and she doesn’t know why.”  I pause watching his reaction as he studies my face “Don’t worry though, Mommy’s seeing a doctor and taking medicine to make it better – and you, you and your brother, you make my heart so happy.”

He crawls off my lap, pats my hand, and tells me he will be right back.  He returns with his beloved “Puppy,” a stuffed dog now a very integral part of our family, gifted to him by one of his dad’s coworkers when he was born.

You can borrow Puppy Mommy and then I’ll call Daddy and tell him to bring you Lambie so Lambie can sleep with you tonight and help your heart feel better.”

My chest heaves one more heavy sigh, I squeeze my son, rock him on my lap in the corner of the closet, wish with all my might that the rest of the world was as kind as my little boy, and vow to collect myself and save the wallowing for another day, or another time.  We get up together.  I go to the bathroom to wash my face and he leaves the room, presumably to return to his play.  He returns with his brother, hand-in-hand.  They each grab onto a leg and squeeze.  Now the guilt and the gratitude are hand-in-hand.

I am grateful because my boys have always been my calming center.  I can look into their faces and know that no pain or challenge or hardship is bigger than my love for them.  But when my emotions feel uncontrollable, when I’m overwhelmed, when it feels like depression is fighting hard to win – they can also trigger guilt.

I feel guilty because I compare myself to the happy moms I see making homemade chalk paint.  I feel guilty because I yelled a little too loud when they wouldn’t listen this morning.  I feel guilty because my genetics may mean they too will suffer from this one day.  I feel guilty because I don’t know how to help them if they do.  I feel guilty because it shouldn’t be my children’s job to comfort me. I feel guilty because five-year-olds shouldn’t find their mother crying in the closet.