By TODAY show editor Sara Pines, a.k.a. Sandwich Mom We had our first day of pre-K last week. In New York City, it is not a matter of course; You have to apply, rank your choices based on your catchment, district, etc. and then you are thrown into a lottery and all you can do is hope. In June, we got word, Isabelle was in! Half days, one block from home. Phew! All of which is to say, the first day did not take me by surprise. I knew it was coming. For months. Then, the morning came and the first thing Isabelle said when her eyes popped open was "This is a special day!" Yes, it was. It was a long wait until our 45 minutes of school (they do a gradual immersion). We had a fun morning and then it was time to go, we were both excited. When we got to the classroom door, it happened. I couldn’t talk. My throat got tight and I started to cry. Isabelle introduced herself to the teacher, I just smiled. The parents arranged themselves in the back of the class, I nodded hello, still wiping my tears. It was a great day, Isabelle was dry-eyed and thrilled to be in a big-girl school. I got over my crying jag and we walked home, hand-in-hand, smiling all the way. I come from a family of criers. Everything from weddings to funerals to Hallmark commercials elicits tears. When my first nephew Henry was born, I was in the room with my sister and her husband. An hour or two later, my parents walked into the room. My dad looked at my sister, looked at the baby and burst into tears. My sister and I looked at my dad... and burst into tears. My brother-in-law rolled his eyes... “The waterworks family,” he said. There used to be some guaranteed tears when it came to my dad. Anytime he heard "Taps" or saw footage of JFK or MLK. And he came by it naturally. His mom was a good crier too. Any occasion would do; From graduations to Tuesday night dinner (after all, she had an 8 x 10 picture of JFK next to my parents’ wedding picture in her foyer). The Olympics are always a good source of emotion for our family. Between kids doing their best after so much effort and sacrifice and the medal ceremonies, there was never a dry eye in our house. I cried like a baby when Nadal won the US Open on Monday night. But how do you explain why you’re crying to a 4-year-old? For Isabelle, there’s usually a pretty easy explanation for her tears. There are boo-boo tears, I-want-a-cupcake-and-you-aren’t-giving-it-to-me tears, he-stole-my-toy tears, I-didn’t-get-to-win tears. For me, it's not so simple. As Isabelle has watched me cry over the years and she asks, why are you crying? I try to explain. When I’m sad, I tell her why; “A good man died, sweetie.” Sometimes, I say, “I’m sad to see my daddy sick.” But, the happy tears -- at a wedding or the Olympics -- those are harder to explain. I say, “They’re happy tears.” So now, when she sees me start to go, she asks, “Are those happy tears, Mama?” Now that my dad is diminished by dementia, he really doesn’t speak. He doesn’t show much emotion at all. Sometimes, when we come to visit him, especially when he sees my little smiley girl, he’ll smile. But not that often, anymore. More often, he looks at us... or off to the middle distance, and starts to cry. Are they happy tears? I don’t think so. But how do I know? In our family, it could go either way. But it feels sad to me either way. Maybe because I can’t figure out what’s causing the emotional display. Or maybe because I know he was a man who carried his emotions on his sleeve, warm, quick to laugh and quick to tear up. Now, there’s not much left. So, when I cried at the first day of pre-K, were those happy tears? Yes, honey, they were. Isabelle is growing up and I am immensely proud of her. It's a happy milestone for her and a sense of accomplishment for me. We’ve made it this far! It's exhilarating, yet bittersweet. Where is my baby going? I’m sad that my dad can’t share this milestone, I know he’d have tears in his eyes too. And I know for sure, they’d be happy tears, too. I’ll have to tell him about it, the next time I see him. Who knows, maybe he’ll cry too. More posts from Sandwich Mom:
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