It's OK to cry in front of them

I had an emotional breakdown today in front of my 3-year-old and it's OK.

Mommy cries sometimes. And the holidays are hard. Being a big kid, an adult, is hard, I told her.

And I wept while hanging onto her youthfulness, shrouded in the shadows of our upstairs hallway.

"It's OK, Mommy."

It is hard, and despite how much I adore the season, every year for the last seven Christmases (this would be the eighth) I've found myself feeling sad. And three years ago that sadness turned to an emptiness.

First, when my grandma, Nana, passed away in 2006 it was difficult to get through the holidays, but making her Rum Cake recipe in her kitchen with my then boyfriend helped me through it. It made it bearable to mix and bake and taste and drink and love because I was doing it in her home. And the years after that just got ... easier.

Josephine's first Christmas brought the emptiness - partly because it was the first Christmas I was a mom and Nana wasn't physically there to spend it with us, and then my grandpa (my dad's dad) passed away on Christmas Eve. Sitting in the passenger seat of his car in the driveway at what once was Nana's house he slipped away. Peacefully. And I will never forget how quickly I went from happy, bubbly, "I just took my 6-month-old to the mall on Christmas Eve" crazy mom when I answered my phone to sad, lost and lonely when Dad called me. The first thing I heard before his words were the sorrow in his tone of voice.

Being a grown up is hard.

This morning I sat around playing on the Internet, perusing Pintrest and wasting time refreshing Facebook and Twitter. I was putting off the things on the to do list. I was delaying the Christmas music. I wanted to be in the mood for Christmas and be in love with the season - and most other days I am. I mean, come on, I'm the kid whose dad is Santa Claus. The difference today was I woke up thinking about my Christmases as a kid.

Silver Bells. Hard Candy Christmas. Christmas to Remember. That's my youth. Those are my Christmas songs. The ones I grew up with. Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers? Best.musicians.ever. Hands down. And that's what I wanted this morning, but I knew it would lead me to the emotional shitstorm that's been lurking just beyond the horizon for the last week.

Sometimes, that's what we all need, though, right?

So, I turned on my Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers and Elvis and Brenda Lee and everyone else I grew up listening to (we kicked it old school at Christmas). And before I could even get cookies mixed I was a weepy mess who really just wanted her mom to say, "It's OK." Instead, my 2-year-old fell down the stairs, was in need of snuggles and I stood swaying in the kitchen sobbing through the lyrics I tried to sing to calm myself down. A mess is what I was. A mess, a human, was what my children saw, what my husband walked into the kitchen to find.

You read a lot of shit on the Internet about "supermom" this and "crunchy awesome mom" that and you know what? I've stopped reading most of it. When I have read those blogs, I get upset. Irritated even. It all just saddens me to think we turn to and trust and worry about what people on our computers think. We all do it. There is no denying it. I do it. I'm doing it right now, and don't think I don't know I do it. I'm a big offender of the "omg I just made this recipe and it's fabulous" status updates. So here it is. I know I'm not supermom - at least not one per the definition so many people want to use for the term - but I'm trying to be pretty damn spectacular. That was the point of my practical parenting rant last week. Real life has real consequences and none of us have the correct answers, and if we do have them a lot of times it's pure luck. I told Josie yesterday if she ran out into the parking lot or got naughty in public the police officer who had just passed us would arrest her. Yup. I'm that mom. She stopped her nonsense when she thought she would get in trouble with the authorities for sticking her tongue out at me and wandering off. Good. I was lucky. Even still, I'd rather instill the fear that being bad has (negative) consequences and the joy that being good has (positive) consequences than be a cool parent all the time. I want them to grow up knowing I worked really hard to teach them valuable lessons, and that's pretty courageous.

And part of that courage, that being "spectacular," means being real with my children.

You cannot get much more real with your kids than to break down and cry when you really need to.

Josie sat at the top of the stairs with me and covered me with a quilt my mom made for Grandpa, a quilt that has somehow found its way to my home, and then held me. My 3-year-old was the most comforting person in the world to me this afternoon and I'm so very fortunate that we have been blessed with such kind and loving children, albeit mouthy, loud and obnoxious most of the time.

She's put me through the ringer lately between bedtimes and bad attitudes, and I haven't broken. I haven't shed a tear over her naughtiness. I've tried so hard not to get overly emotional about the behavior because I didn't want her to know she was getting to me all day every day with the button pushing.

Letting her see me cry may have been one of the better things I've done for my child lately.

I know it was definitely one of the best things I've done for me.

Because being a grown up is hard, and sometimes you just have to get it all out. Though I know there are more tears, and more sorrow at this time of the year than any other for a lot of people, it really will be OK.

And that is the story of how today became a two-bottle-of-wine Saturday.