Sob story

Crying has always come easily to me. Like breathing or screwing up a chicken dish. And it's never taken much to turn that faucet on. A sappy commercial; any book about animals; high humidity.

However, despite this emotional instability, I used to be able to do certain things in life with a bit of composure. For instance, I used to be able to watch the news, take a walk, and exercise all without breaking into tears. Yes, I was affected by heartbreaking stories that were sometimes in the headlines, but I managed to get through them all with some poise.

Then I had kids.

The change was instant. It's almost as if just before exiting my body my oldest son reached his tiny arm up into my brain and flicked off the "Stability" switch nestled somewhere between Geometry and Yoga. (To be fair it had been flickering on and off for years.)

Suddenly everything changed. The simple things in life that I used to enjoy became emotional minefields.

I still watch TV and read obsessively, but I now have to be much more selective with my choices. I've had to avoid anything that focuses on, or even dances around topics like: children who are sick, children who are hungry, children who are poor, children who are sad, children who are abused, children who have disabilities, children who are tired, children who are overtired, children who like bugs, children who dance, children who don't like Grover and children who are scared of chick peas. You get my point.

In fact, I can only stomach stories about kids who are on a family vacation at Disney, eating cotton candy, being twirled around by their doting parents while clinging to a large stuffed animal and smiling crazily through their sticky teeth. And even then, I'm liable to lose it. Seriously, what's a bigger tear-jerker than a loving father swinging his little baby around in the air?

Also, anything about animals is completely off limits. I can say with certainty that I will never watch Bambi again. And while I love books about dogs, I know they're not a smart choice anymore unless I have a full week to recover in private. Seriously. "The Art of Racing in the Rain" (a simple, sweet novel about a race car driver and his dog) nearly landed me in therapy.

So how do I navigate through my days without breaking down? The news is easy enough to filter. I can mute Brian Williams. I can browse headlines on CNN.com and opt to read about Kate Middleton's hats instead of a young mother who drowns her children because she's mad at her baby daddy.

But try as I might to tune out these sad stories it's impossible to avoid them all.

Every day I go to the gym to try and "get away from it all." Unfortunately the gym has become the scene of some embarrassing breakdowns. Most days I run on the treadmill.  I hate running and so getting though those miles requires a certain mindset that I can only achieve with mindless television. It sounds benign enough. Except. I watch Oprah.

I'm watching the 25th season religiously as I run. And it's killing me. One day she's giving away iPads and cars and making people cry with joy. Twenty-four hours later she's detailing the horrific abuse some poor child suffered at the hands of their unstable father who could be Charles Manson's less sane brother.

So there I am on bouncing around on the treadmill, wiping the tears away from my eyes and tying to make it look like I'm simply extracting a pesky eyelash - for 60 minutes.

I realize Oprah is simply doing her part to help society, (and CONSTANTLY reminding her audience about how she's doing her part to help society) but she's turning me into an emotional basket case one "Ah-ha!" moment at a time.

(Yes, I realize I could change the channel but that requires extra effort and I'm already channeling all of my energy into my legs at that moment.)

Walking down the street has also become risky. Again, it seems simple enough, unless you have given birth.

All I have to do is glance down and see a child's abandoned sock or shoe sitting in a muddy puddle. The fact that this child most likely manually ejected this piece of clothing from their own body because mommy wouldn't give them a third lollipop is irrelevant. I'm sure that this child is locked in the back of a windowless van, being carted away to a hopeless fate. In an instant my quick trip to CVS for Comet has become a heart-wrenching trek down a treacherous city street. I picture my own boys' socks sitting in that rainwater and again, my eyes are filling with tears. Luckily CVS has converted most of their stores to self-checkout counters so I really don't have to explain my inability to breathe in and out like a normal human being to anyone.

Listening to the radio is challenging as certain songs always manage to hijack a relatively calm mind set. "Teach Your Children Well" by Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young sends me reeling. As do "Cat's in The Cradle," by Harry Chapin and "Photograph," by Nickelback. (Stop it Nickelback haters, it's a good song.) Also, anything by Elton John, Cat Stevens, and Coldplay. Even Megadeath probably has its risks. And I can't forget Les Miserables. No matter that I've heard the soundtrack hundreds of thousands of times. It gets me every single time. But here I'm lucky. I can mostly avoid these situations as I've turned into my mother and only listen to talk radio in the car.

Commercials have the same effect. The old Nike spot "If you let me play sports" puts a semi-permanent lump in my throat. And that decades-old Coke commercial where people hold hands and walk over the hills singing? I choke up just thinking about it. A few years back when I was in advertising myself and trying to write commercials that would have one-tenth of the effect of those ads, I would watch them religiously with reverence. Now I watch them with a box of Kleenex.

My point? Having kids has turned me into a cry-baby. And it's just sad.

Yesterday I told my husband the topic of this blog.

Me: "It's about how I cry so much more easily over everything now that I have kids."
Husband: "Is that true?"
Me: "Is what true?"
Husband: "That you cry more?"
Me: "Seriously? You live with me. Yes. It's true."
Husband: "Hmm. You might want to rethink your blog."
Me: "Why???"
Husband: "Because people are going to think you're depressed."
Me: "That's it. I'm not sharing these blogs with you in advance anymore."

Yet, hours later I find myself rethinking this one. Maybe my husband is right. Maybe people will think I'm depressed – and I don't want that. Hormonal? 100%. But not depressed.

But deep down I believe that other women who have also generously donated their emotional stability to childbirth will get what I'm saying. At least to some degree. Or at the very, very least, maybe the part about the animals.

Having babies changes everything. But (abdominal muscles aside) I believe our minds take the hardest hit. Yes, I've become much more outspoken, patient (if you know me, don't laugh) and compassionate, but I've also become emotionally vulnerable in a way I never knew was possible.

CNN. Oprah. A pair of socks. They simply never had this affect on me before I had kids.

But my husband shouldn't worry too much. I don't need to check into a psych ward. (Yet.)

That said, I probably should rent out a room in a nearby plastic bubble.

It's a Life Sentence on Facebook!