Crying Like a Weirdo

This past Christmas, I flat-out refused to watch Home Alone. Why? Because I didn't want to morph into a blubbering weirdo.

As a kid, I have a vivid memory of watching Home Alone with my family. At the end of the movie, I heard sniffling. I looked over, and there was my mom, full-on crying—like, tears streaming down her face, red-eyed, the whole works.

My ten-year-old reaction? Not exactly compassionate. I thought, What a weirdo.

When she caught us staring, she chuckled, waving her hand in front of her face. "I'm just so happy they were all reunited," she said, sniffling some more.

Yeah, okay, I thought. You're still a weirdo.

Fast forward thirty-plus years, and guess what? I've become that weirdo.

I’m not sure if it’s hitting my forties, perimenopause, or just the stage of life with kids heading off to college and adulthood, but holy emotional rollercoaster—I’m a mess.

I used to be pretty steady, the queen of calm. Now? I’m a walking, talking mood swing.

Back in September, I took my youngest to see The Wild Robot in theaters. It’s about a robot that becomes a mother to a little goose. When the goose has to fly south for the winter, they have to say goodbye. Not exactly the best choice right after sending a kid off to college. The waterworks were unstoppable.

And it’s not just movies. I could be reading a book, having a casual conversation, or listening to music, and BAM—here come the tears. Even when I’m not feeling particularly sad!

So yeah, moral of the story: I may never watch Home Alone again because I’ll probably cry at the end, just like my mom did.

That’s the new me. Crying like a weirdo.

Time to buy stock in Kleenex.