In case you were counting, this was visit 1643 to the doctor in the last two months. This time it was Cinco and a rash. Her great grandfather was prone to weird skin things, not my grandfather, we’re normal, so I get things checked out. Better safe than sorry. I was unaware of the various sensitivity issues that ran deep in the father figure’s gene pool when I signed up to lifeguard it. I recommend blood tests and various gene therapies . And then a pre-nup that dictates that if is YOUR weirdo familial quirks that are necessitating the doctor trip, you have to take the progeny.

As we were walking into the doctor’s office, Mac started asking me questions about Cinco’s rash. He determined, based upon the red color of the rash, that it was either lava or fire. And that life wouldn’t be all that bad in the only thing in the world was volcanoes…..that and people. And the people were “lava proof.”

Mac cut to the chase when the doctor came in.

“This is our baby and she has a rash and it’s either lava or fire.” At this point I asked Mac “What part of this is sitting still and being quiet?”

The doctor was not convinced that it was either fire or lava. She went with yeast.  Mac pointed out that yeast is not red. I pointed out that Mac is not quiet.  The doctor conceded this point and explained that yeast is not red but can make things red. Mac agreed and observed “Well she’s not breathing fire.”

So Mac concurred with the doctor and decided that Cinco has a yeast infection under her chin. This is a new one for the family annals of health. In the interests of full disclosure, it’s actually under her second chin, soon to be third. Because this is the United States of America, where you can have as many chins as you want. 

Never sign your children up for a sports camp. Especially if said sports camp commences at 8am.  And you know you live 40 minutes away. If you never sign your children up for a sports camp that commences at 8am, 40 minutes from where you live, you won’t ever have to deal with learning that it indeed actually takes place an hour from you, having been moved due to soggy field conditions.

Consider this your PSA of the week.

Baby was not happy to be participating in a speed and agility training camp. That is until she actually went, posted the fastest time in all five trials and then decided to not complain about the camp but rather complain that the camp was done for the day.  There is no winning with her. 

My master plan for potty training involved psychological warfare. I purchase the cheapest diapers I can find simply to make the child training as uncomfortable as possible. It is working.  Sort of. Mostly during nap time. X-Man is not a fan of cheap diapers and removes them. However he’s not convinced of the need to make it to the potty. Just not have the cheap diapers touch his loins. He is peeing occasionally in the potty. He sits on it while watching a movie. He might wonder, in future years, why, when he hears the theme to Wreck-It Ralph, is he overcome with the desire to use the facilities. 

I am feeling fired up at the moment. I don’t really enjoy snarky emails from people implying that I don’t do my job. (my actual paid job) This might seem odd coming from someone who’s who blog is based in incompetence, but I don’t mind owning my failures. Having others point them out, not so much fun. Of course then there the even better experience, people claiming you didn’t do things that you actually did do. And have the emails to prove that you did. Unfortunately, those kind of “ah ha” moments are less satisfying when done over email themselves. But whatever. I’m right, he was wrong. Neener neener neener.  Maybe I haven’t really let go of the whole experience yet.

Now, if we want to talk about real, true failures, let me tell you about Saturday. Actually, most of Saturday was fun, soccer tournament type of fun. Where Baba tied it up with two minutes to go and then it was decided, correctly I might add, with penalty kicks. Ok, it really wasn’t all that fun. But that part seemed downright joyous compared to earlier that day. And it did involve me not doing my job.

One aspect of soccer tournaments is that there is a lot of time to kill between games. Especially if your team keeps winning and heads to the championship game, which for all you non-soccer families is the last game of the day. Being rather close to a large mall, one that lacked sales tax but did indeed have air conditioning, off we headed. We being Baba, Baby, Mac and Gestated. X-Man discovered that if he woke up with a 101 degree fever he got to hang out with Grandma all day. And that his fever would disappear before noon and he would have a delightful afternoon eating and being the center of attention.

So there I was, in the mall, with most of my children. I think it’s important to remember that X-Man wasn’t present. I had Cinco strapped to me and knew I didn’t have a toddler, so I let my guard down. I am certain you can see where this is going. We first went to a clothing store called “Justice.” For those of you who are unfamiliar with said establishment, it’s a clothing store for tweens. Imagine glitter and bangles and sparkles thrown in a blender with some material. Yup, that’s Justice for you. There’s a small corner with four t-shirts with various superheroes on them. That’s Brothers, the brother store to Justice. It does not hold the attention of young men the way the racks of Justice sing the song of my daughters’ people.

We then moved on. I held the Disney store out as a reward for good behavior as we moved along. I popped into a store. As I look back, I was very foolish to pick a store directly across from a koi pond. The girls followed me into the store; Mac was drawn to the koi. Of course he was. And then he realized that he had lost his mom and move on to find her. He did not move in the right direction.

Baba asked “where’s Mac” about three minutes our shopping. I knew that he was hiding in the clothing racks as he is want to do. Repeatedly. No number of threats can seem to dissuade him. Only, he wasn’t hiding in the clothing racks. And he wasn’t outside. Baby was convinced Mac had ventured back to the Disney store, since that was the only store he was interested in. So I backtracked. No dice.

At this point panic was fully set in. Among my rational thoughts was “oh sure, now that I’ve bragged that I’ve only forgotten one child once….”. Although to be fair, I didn’t forget Mac, I just lost him. I considered pulling aside a Disney employee and asking for security but that would require standing still and I wasn’t physically able to do that yet.

Heading back to the original store, about three minutes into the ordeal….or possibly four hours, I’m unclear on that aspect, I saw a little red headed boy, wearing jean shorts and a red shirt about to turn a corner and disappear out of sight. I started moving as quickly as I could. I did still have Cinco still strapped to me. She decided to express her concern for her brother by spitting up, not over me, but rather up and into my shirt. There was pooling of vomit where nothing should pool. And I didn’t even notice. Well, obviously I did as I am speaking of it now but it took some time. I was cursing my cute shoes that I had been complimented on at the previous soccer game. They were cute. They were not designed to run after small persons.

I rushed passed the original store, where Baby and Baba were waiting. I had ordered them not to move, because as I had hurried off to the Disney store I was convinced that Mac would wander out of the dressing rooms or burst out of a clothing rack after all. But I knew I had seen my little boy wander away, I made eye contact with the girls and told them “don’t you move” and went after Mac. It flashed across my mind that it could be the last time I ever saw my little boy as I caught sight of the CODE ADAM sticker in the window. I contemplated kicking off my cute shoes when a teenage girl yelled “hey you looked panicked are you missing a little boy?” I responded “red hair and a Spiderman shirt?” “Yeah, he went that way with a lady from Build a Bear.” One of the boys in her group said ‘They went this way” As I hurried along, I realized he was walking with me and pointed out the lady with Mac.

Mac looked at me with a face I knew well. The “I’m trying to be brave and not cry but I think I’m in trouble and I’m pretty upset” face. I know that I stumbled through some thanks, I don’t remember what I said to the kid, I think he took off pretty fast. The Build a Bear lady did everything right. She tried to coax him into her store, but Mac did everything right too and didn’t stay with a stranger. So she walked beside him, talking to him but keeping a slight distance between them. I don’t know what Mac told her, he told me that he cried a little bit. I did too, but I didn’t tell him that.

I suppose I should have lectured him, or yelled at him or something. But I didn’t.  We looked at each other and had an understanding. He held my hand for the rest of the day. And he held my hand the next day when we were out and about. I told him he was right not to go with an adult he didn’t want to. And that if he should look for a mom if he were ever lost again. I got that tip from the book The Gift of Fear.

I would have thought that our reunion would have been more huggy kissy than it was. It was just quiet. I think it was due to the intensity of the feelings. And, unfortunately, I wasn’t able to properly thank the people who cared enough to take time to help Mac and I find each other. 

I like new experiences. Like falling asleep in the dentist chair, while they worked on a Detroitesque—both in size and scope—cavity. Better yet, I like making my way to the waiting room where Baby, Mac and Cinco were waiting, only to hear the receptionist ask “Are those kids still there? They’re so quiet!” Baby was holding Cinco, because she had just had a dirty diaper and Baby didn’t want Cinco to have to sit in it. ~melt~

Mac was reading Tintin. Truly reading it. So the cockles, whatever those are, in my heart were very warmed.

Baba was at camp and had to organize twenty girls, her age, and have them do a play. They wouldn’t listen to her. She asked me indignantly “Do you know how hard it is to get anything done when no one listens to you?” Hmmmm…….

X-Man removed his diaper and peed all over the bed. However, it was his bed so I’m taking that as a win as well. Over all it’s been a good day. 

There’s an odd phenomenon I’ve encountered over the last couple of years. I find that parents, mothers in particular, when hearing how many children I have, tend to start explaining how they wanted more children  or how they had considered having more or how they might use IVF to have more children. I’m not sure if my family size is a general conversation starter, much in the way modern art is. A sort of “What the hades?” type of thing. I might be hearing things incorrectly, but those explanations often sound like they feel like they need to justify the number of children they have. As if I care how many children anyone else has. I don’t. Not because I am a rude or self-absorbed person, which I may be but that’s beside the point, the real reason why I don’t care about anyone else’s reproductive choices is because that’s my son over there, licking the slide.

See mom, whose hair looks brushed and actually has makeup on, you don’t have to explain how two kids works well for you. Two kids worked well for me too. My silence isn’t me judging you; my silence is me trying to remember if I got Mac clean underwear this morning. I know I did yesterday, because he didn’t want to wear Doofensmirtz underwear, because he’s a bad guy. So, that means his underwear is relatively clean so that’s good. Did he just wipe his nose on his shirt again? Why? That sleeve was clean. Huh? You have your hands full with two, yeah I can relate. I had two once. I used to dress them in matching outfits, and pack those snacks no matter how short the park trip. Yeah that one over there is mine too, the one running around your child trying to throw bark chips at him. That in his hand? Yeah that’s a waffle. It was his breakfast yesterday, he stashed it in the car, not sure where, since his sisters allegedly cleaned out the car yesterday.

Having large quantities of kids does not make me super mom. Don’t feel like you fail to measure up to my standards. I don’t typically wear my shirts inside out. Typically, I don’t treat spit up stains as accessories to outfits, but if you got it, flaunt it. Or at least look as if you know you’re covered in vomit. And I would scoot closer to you to visit, but there’s poop on this side of my pants. Hey I remembered a change of clothes for the baby, I feeling pretty awesome actually.

So no, I’m not judging you. I’m not close to judging you. I am wondering how loud I can raise my voice to get Baby’s attention before you judge me. See, she’s supposed to be helping X-Man, who has now climbed the railing on the tall slide. But she’s still just spinning and singing. Thanks for having your child come to the rescue.

How do I do it? Not well. I’m sure one wears you out. I was worn out by one too. Now I’m just dazed and confused. You laugh, because you’re polite, but that’s the truth. Having more children than you doesn’t make me a better mother than you. It’s quite possible that there is nothing in this world that would make me a better mother than you. And I certainly don’t think anything of the number of children you have. I’m more preoccupied with the number of binkies I have now. Because I definitely had more when I left the house and I’ve been on this ride before and it ain’t pretty.

I just hope I didn’t traumatize you. Thank you for taking the time to tell me how sweet Baby is. She really is precious; being a big sister has really let her shine. My kids are pretty well behaved; they do play well with others. That’s the thing. Children are children. They are happy bundles of chaos. And if you delight in yours half as much as I delight in mine, you are a lucky lucky woman. A lucky woman who probably remembered to put on deodorant. 

I came home recently to find the father figure’s wedding ring sitting by the computer. It hurt his hand, he said. I opined that that was a fitting metaphor for marriage in general.  I might have also muttered something about delicate baby princess hands. Because I’m nice like that.

Then it was Friday and I had a list a mile long to prepare for our soccer tournament at the beach. Yes, the beach. So of course the father figure texts me and asks me to bring his wedding ring to him at work.  I gave it to him once, eleven years ago, I understood the deal to be it was his responsibility from here on out. I texted him back, couldn’t he just get it when he came back? Then he called me, and asked me to bring it. I guess he thought that once he slipped into his form fitting, oh so flattering brown uniform, he was completely irresistible to the ladies. All the ladies. Always. Or at least that’s the way he chose to play it that way, casually commenting “Well I figured you would want me to wear it.” Not 45 minutes out of my way wanted you to.

Chasing down a UPS truck to return the driver’s wedding ring strikes me as the story line to a bad soap opera. Which might explain why it factored into my life.

So, soccer in the sand. Fun concept, execution pretty challenging. I observed that a sizeable majority of the teams were local teams, who had also traveled two hours and spent the night so we could all play each other. I’m not sure why we couldn’t dump a couple of tons of sand in a parking lot and call it good. But then how would I learn that X-Man is scared of sand. Like high pitched scream scared, can’t let go of the wagon because the sand will touch my delicate feets scared.

Life is all about claiming the small victories, and in this case it is the fact that while I resemble a poached lobster, my tiny humans do not. Although that did not reassure my mother, who, after seeing me said “Oooh what does the baby look like?” Her lack of confidence in me is disappointing.

It was father’s day, and what father doesn’t want to spend the weekend at the beach, watching soccer and admiring the muscle cars that lined the main street. And be given a card lovingly hand made by Baby. It was a picture of Baby and the father figure complete with cotton ball heads, pipe cleaner arms and legs and eyes and mouths (we had to go to three different stores to find the right colors) and hair. Real hair. That she saved after she brushed her hair and carefully glued to the card. There’s a lot of hair and it sticks out of the card at all angles.

The creativity doesn’t come from me. I know that much. The excess hair, yeah that’s from me. 

In case you were wondering, the high point of today involved fishing copious amounts of m&ms out of X-Man’s mouth. The pretzel ones. So they were extra-large. All the more reason to shove all six into your mouth at one time. If you tend to drool plenty anyway, a condition I am blaming on his swollen adenoids at the moment, and you shove six large m&ms in your mouth your drool will become like a rainbow. A rainbow that’s been dragged through the mud, but your drool will certainly be jazzed up quite a bit. X-Man had six m&ms to shove into his mouth because he had just peed in the potty, so I really didn’t care about how freakish he looked moments after the triumph. I had visions of him being freakish while wearing underwear and that makes me very happy.

Other things that make me happy are really clever jokes and puns. Especially when my daughter says them. Yesterday Baba informed her Aunt Kitty, with whom she was playing Oppressors versus Natives, that Sihks were her favorite kind of Indians. And I was proud. Oh so proud. First, that her cultural knowledge had expanded that far. As far as I knew, I was still her teacher and I didn’t remember covering that in social sciences, but whatever my child’s a genius. Furthermore, the cleverness of her pun blew my mind. Like I wished I had thought of it. Totes proud kid. Totes proud. Then she confessed “At least I think that’s how you say it. You spell it ‘Sioux’”. Oh. Time to come crashing down to earth. My little girl just has that homeschooling reader’s vocabulary. Expansive but mostly mispronounced. Oh well, better luck next time.

Mac invited his grandfather to join him in a game of punch nose. If you are curious as to how to participate, Mac will happily demonstrate. I believe the game was created out of sheer panic, the grandfather, who can be a bit intimidating, asks what you are doing, quick think of something….anything! And so punch nose became the activity of necessity.

In case there was any confusion, X-Man swam an extra lap in the maternal gene pool. He brought the father figure a coffee cup and announced “Starbucks” and waddled off. I’m not sure if it is the coffee familiarity or the waddling which is the stronger marker of heritage.

I’ve been moving in a haze recently. I think it’s a form of self-preservation. It seems the only option when your day starts out with Baby bellowing “Mom! Mac keeps saying that Madagascar is a real place!”  And when you are roped into a raging debate over which is a worse pet, a lemur or a weasel and which would you prefer to have mom? Deafness is not an acceptable answer.

This is how I found myself wandering through the grocery store looking for nontoxic sunscreens when it occurred to me that it was hard to walk. It certainly would be, since Baby had wrapped both her arms around my waist and had her head resting on my stomach. Ideal shopping cart pushing position. And Mac was on the other side, arms wrapped around me, hands pushing Baby’s arms off saying “NO I love mom more!”

Yep, a picture of domestic bliss we were. Struggling down the aisle, wiping X-Man’s drool off my arms, now functioning as ground zero in a tug of war as well. I guess I could bill myself as such a magnificent mom that my kids fight over how much they love me.  They also fight over whose eyes laid on a book first. Not who read the book first, not who touched the book first but who thought

about grabbing and reading the book. So, fighting over me doesn’t boost my ego as much as you might think.

However, I didn’t see the need to share that information with the little old lady who beamed at me. She saw a mother being hugged by her children. She didn’t recognize a demilitarized zone when she saw one. Mac was digging his fingers in under his sister’s arms growling “No she’s my mom”, Baby was tightening her grip around my hips saying “Mac, I was here first.” Valid points, both. And, more importantly, to the passersby nothing but a mother adored by her children.  I’m all about image, because most days, it’s all I got.

Eventually we made it to the checkout, where the candy distracted both of them. As we were leaving Baby pointed out that the cashier had the same name as she did. “She stole my name mom!” I pointed out that the lady was significantly older than Baby, so chances were she didn’t actually steal her name. “I guess you’re right mom. Well, she’ll die way before me and then it’ll just be my name.” Maybe it’s better if they just fight over who loves me more.

You know it’s a Monday when you realize the highlight of your day is something that would have made you cry when you graduated college or high school or whenever the world was still was still your oyster and you still dreamed of starry eyed abandon. Because in no playbook or commencement address or year book platitudes was it a possibility of your toddler peeing into a plastic bag the bright spot in your day. And yet, there I was. All I wanted was a little bit of pee in a bag and I could call the day good. At some point in time I will ask, where did it go off the rails? But at this point in time, I’m just trying to hold on to the rails.

My first mistake was setting the alarm in the anticipation of an early morning run. Cinco got wind of that and slept as noisily as humanly possible. Punctuated by moments of intense silence which had convinced me that she had died several times. This left me staring at the clock thinking about how my alarm would go off in fifteen minutes. Then I slept through it. Always the way to start the day.

On my Monday list to do was calling the doctor about X-Man. Again. This time concerning his addiction to water and extensive consumption of dihydrogen monoxide. And of course the only solution was for me to bring all five into the doctor’s office, or as the children call it….home.

They attached a little bag to his manhood and said to wait for him to fill it. It shouldn’t have been a problem; I had just finished describing how often he filled a diaper. And considering how much he was drinking, we most likely had a five minute wait. But in the back of my head I was thinking about our various potty training experiences. Basically, X-Man can watch two full movies while sitting on the potty and do exactly jack. He will then walk five steps and pee on the carpet. The boy has a bladder of steal when he feels like it.

He felt like it. I drove all over the county, wandered some stores, went to soccer practice, took the boy to Starbucks. He emptied every sippy cup in the car and downed some old coffee as well. I had

reached the point of willingness to pay the caffeine piper just to get the stupid sample. To no avail.

Every time I took off his diaper to check the little bag stuck to his skin, X-Man would apprise me of the situation “uhuh pee pees.” Say what you want kid, you are clearly ready to potty train.  Gestated happily demonstrated three different times what exactly it was I was looking for. The third time, she did so with such gusto it was clear that she had forgotten that Baby had removed the wipes from the car, because those were clearly the only wipes anywhere to bring to the father figure earlier that day, and then did not put them back. So not only “uhuh pee pees” but also “uhuh wipes” with a whole lot of “yep poop.”

And so that’s how I came to be sitting on the floor of a bathroom in the doctor’s office, running water in the sink, watching the minutes tick away  until closing time for the lab. X-Man, sans pants, was running back and forth, maximizing the reverberation the room allowed. To Mac’s growing consternation, no one was understanding his explanation of things “His body is not broken, he’s walking just fine. The only thing broken about him is his crying and he’s not even crying right now.” Cinco demonstrated her abilities to empty her body orally as well.  Baby just looked irritated and said “Why are we still here?”

To add insult to injury, I’m pretty sure that this is actually all an ear/nose/ throat issue and this whole test will indicate that everything is normal. That is, provided I can actually get a sample, and get that sample back to the lab within an hour. While hauling five kids.

  On a side note, at the park, while waiting for Baba to finish soccer practice, I saw a mother whose gestating cinco came with a matching seis. I think my Monday was probably better than hers. 

Mac is not handsome. He is not cute. He is not playful. He is lovish. Because he loves everyone he knows.  And everything.  So says Mac.

It’s interesting to see how the kids view themselves.  Baby is the oppressed one. Third world countries haven’t suffered as much injustice and persecution as she has. Slaves have more freedom and work less. Baba is oppressed by the “man”. She works too hard and is not given enough. X-Man is starved routinely. And told “no” way too often. Mac is lovish and comfortable in his own skin. He also mused once, after Baby said “the cutest person in the world” as the setup of her knock knock joke “hmmm, is it X-Man or me?” Gestated Cinco is. That’s as far as she’s gotten.

It’s eye opening and truly helpful to see how the children view themselves in the context of parental expectations. I take their objections seriously, certainly. And I also see their behaviors that I need to address and improve. It’s amusing to realize in striving to avoid all the mistakes your parents may have made while raising their herd, you create a whole bunch of new ones.

I think it is good to listen to the kiddos complaints, at least sometimes. I do take the opportunity to evaluate what I am asking to do and how much they do. It’s also a good time to try to determine what exactly their love language is. Baby is touch, and lots of it. I used to think that Mac’s was punching, but now I’m thinking it is word like words of affirmation. With some touch thrown in there. Baba has been perplexing me. I’m pretty sure she’s also a words of affirmation type of gal, with some touch thrown in. But man oh man do gifts speak her name as well. I myself speak the love language of margaritas.

And that’s all I got. I’m trying to meet my kiddos needs, over and above feeding and clothing them. Although that alone is a herculean effort. Plus I even change diapers. Multiple children’s diapers numerous times a day.  But if I could cover more than just the basics, it might reduce the amount in therapy that they will require. Or the number of blog posts they write about their childhood.

Gestated Cinco ceased gestating almost seven weeks ago. So that means it’s time to get serious about the whole exercise thing again. I exercised fairly religiously up until eight months, but my body was more than happy to say good bye to the muscles I had maintained and flabby is a state of being once again. So, workouts here we come.

There are perils involved in exercising, add children to the mix, and surviving becomes a feat in itself. After my first girls, I stuck primarily with Pilates. Because I was in my early twenties and bouncing back was actually a reality. I have left that place in life. The girls were considerate enough to nap during my exercise time. And if they did have to join me, it was a true partnership. Baba especially likes to lie next to me and partake in the various stretches. She also gave me all sorts of encouragement, telling me how good I was doing. Now it might sound silly that I appreciated my three year old’s exercise critiques but I did.

Enter Mac. Maybe it was because he was a boy. Maybe it was because I was in my late twenties. But bounce back was left in the past. And weight gain was especially gargantuan.  So I had to exercise.  And do so with a passion. Which I didn’t. Mostly because with three, one starting school and working from home, nap time was work time or collapse time. I exercised, but it was haphazard. This is actually an appropriate description of life at that time.

Then X-Man’s existence became known. I broke the news to the father figure by telling him that he had better get the treadmill into the house because I wasn’t about to become the Godzilla of incubators. I tend to cut to the chase when it’s important. No cutesy pregnancy test gimmicks for me.

Up unto that point, exercise consisted of me doing some work out while Mac assisted. Lay on your back on the floor? Why sure, and add a two year old to your stomach. Standing on one leg? Let’s use the other one as a chin up bar. Downward dog? You mean, super awesome tunnel don’t you? Child’s pose? Or mountain on which to reenact the iconic Rocky scene.

So I had to crank up my efforts while dodging Mac’s. And that was easier said than typed. And considering that I had to stop typing three times to retrieve Gestated Cinco’s binky, that’s saying something. I could get up at six am; Mac would get up at 6:05. I would wait until bedtime at night; Mac would be unable to sleep. And really, really need to be with me. I had begun to walk 2.5 miles a night on the treadmill and Mac thought that his dinosaurs should walk with me. And cars, there should be cars. He also thought that my resistance band should be used as a slingshot or Baby would harness him and run or all three of them would play red rover with it, hurling each other across the living room. My weights were instruments by which to see who could crush a sibling’s foot the worst.  It ended up not so much the exercising that helped me through X-Man’s pregnancy but rather the chasing a commandeering my own equipment from his siblings that kept the pounds at bay.

After X-Man was born and those baby pounds did slip off easily, I committed myself to exercise bigger and better. I invested heavily in Jillian Michaels DVDs and set about to be awesome. My resolve was shaken when Mac wandered in and observed for a few minutes. He then wandered off, commenting “You’re losing mom.”  I also learned the hard way that if you are developing mastitis, doing “30 day Shred” will spread the infection like wildfire. FYI.

The father figure was helpful himself. He would pass through, listen to me talk all sailor-like to Jillian and the offer “Oh, that’s not that hard.” I demurely panted pack “It’s not hard if you’re sitting on the couch dude.” 

It’s all about teaching my kids about healthy body image. Or it’s ok to be a grown person who cries.