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I had a really rotten day yesterday.  It doesn’t really matter why; there were hiccups on the publishing front, hiccups as Director of Graduate Studies (sick students, miserable students, failing students), hiccups on the department front (anyone read any of those academic novels about English Departments?  It’s all true), hiccups at home (OK, just your normal run of mother-guilt).

Anyway, it was a really terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day.  (And that’s the name of a terrific children’s book, if you missed it).

So I came home and cried.  My children gathered around.  That makes it sound as if there were twelve of them, but in fact the two of them vibrate at such a high frequency it feels that way.  My daughter was consoling.  “Oh, Mama,” she crooned, stroking my face and hair.  “Poor Mama.” My son did a male thing.  Who knew my little boy was turning into a man?  “What happened?” he asked over and over.  “What are you going to do about it?” My husband appeared.  I don’t want to put his comments into print because you’d think he was trying out as an extra on the Sopranos, but it was appreciated.

I cried and ate chocolate and read a romance (Jayne Ann Krenz’s latest-very good) and thought about how differently men and women handle really terrible days.  It wasn’t until this morning that I was able to rally and do what my son was essentially urging me to do—defend myself.  It wasn’t until this morning that I found myself agreeing with some of my husband’s more repeatable comments.  Yesterday I was just a sodden lump, eating chocolate and crying.

My son finally said:  “Why are you crying?” It seemed so obvious to me:  “Because I feel like it.” “I never feel like it,” he told me.  “When you made me read Bridge to Terabintha, I didn’t like that.”

The thing is...I like crying.  I don’t love it, but it makes me feel better.  Mind you, one of the joys of being adult is measuring the times when I don’t cry—in a meeting, in public, whenever.  But crying at home?  Priceless.

What about you all?  Do you cry?  Lots, a little, never?  Does it make you feel better or horrid (my best friend says she always feel like a loser when she’s driven to tears).  What about the men in your life?  How do they react to bad days?