When I was a kid, sometimes I'd get weepy for no apparent reason.
I'd pad quietly through the house, looking for my mom. Often she'd be sitting at the piano, so I'd climb up on the bench beside her.
"I feel like crying and I don't know why," I'd tell her.
And she'd always tell me that was fine. That it was okay to cry, to let it out, even if there wasn't an explanation or an answer to go with the tears. Then she'd listen to me let go, holding me just a little so that I knew I wasn't alone.
That's how I feel today. Like crying, but I don't know why.
Maybe it's because my children were apparently conspiring to kill me between 4 and 9 a.m. today while my husband was away overnight. Because every time I turn around, Pippi is naked -- even after I've dressed her and am waiting at the door to leave for the morning. Because neither one of them will ever. stop. talking.
Maybe it's because I seem to be physically incapable of going to bed before 11 p.m., no matter how exhausted I am. Because my sinuses are clogged with pollen-induced snot. Because my right wrist and hand ache so much I can't hold a pen properly.
Maybe it's because there's yet another hole in my kitchen ceiling. Because I had to grocery shop with Pippi today. Because it's gray and cloudy.
Or d) all of the above.
Thanks for listening.