I cried a lot. Everyone does it, but I cried excessively. When it was acceptable and unacceptable I cried. Maybe it is because I am the youngest. Maybe it is because I am sensitive. Or maybe it is because I am pathetic. Whether all or none are true, one statement remains clear; I cried a lot. How could I help myself? The job description of the youngest child is mastering the art of annoyance and manipulation in order to get whatever he or she wants. The vehicle I use to achieve this goal was simple, crying. However, I had no idea that the crutch in which I so heavily relied on might slip from my grasp and lead to my fall.


Year: 1995 Age: 3

I was a cry baby. No one will admit it, but my mom liked me the best. I felt no shame. You say cry. I cry.

Year: 1997 Age: 5

I was a big girl. I wanted to cry, but I had responsibilities. Responsibilities to sleep without the attached bumper on my bed, responsibilities take advantage of staying up a whole half hour later, and responsibilities to pick the best show-n-tell surprise. In kindergarten, one thing stood in the way of my waterworks show; if you cry, you are a whiner and whiners do not have friends. I learned how to choke back my tears at any cost. However, every now and then my alter ego came back to haunt me. I tried mercilessly hard to conceal it, but those well trained tear ducts never held back tears once I let one slide.

Year: 2002 Age: 10

I was a social butterfly. Crying was much easier to suppress and I had all the social tricks in the bag. Now, my main problem was not crying, it was boys. I did not know how to respond to them. Were they trying to be funny when the joked with me? Did that mean they liked me? Did they hate me? Needless to say, I was confused. However, there were no boys more confusing than Patrick Dillon and Jack Doyle. Patrick lived across the street, Jack’s house was just a couple houses down the block, and both knew me since I was three, as a cry baby. This already supplied them with enough artillery to embarrass me as much as they wanted. A normal day in the fall of 2002 was no exception.


On that day, Molly came over after school for a play date. Molly was my best friend but did not fully understand my inward battle against the weeping whiner. We decided to play in the front year. I knew this was always a risky choice. Patrick would be lurking around any corner searching for ways to embarrass me. However, today was a good day at school. I had avoided talking to boys that confused me and although Patrick Dillon was in my class, we had had no confrontations. As I ran inside to grab a ball to play “spud” with Molly, I came outside to find Patrick and Jack talking with Molly. Oh shoot. As I approached, I kept my cool. They asked us if we wanted to play basketball. I was a little confused at how nice Patrick was being. Sure! Let’s play! Maybe he wants to be friends! What a naïve thought.

Not more than fifteen minutes later I was running home, struggling for breath, and wailing out Mommy! He had done it again. He had provoked the inner cry baby in me and Molly had seen me this way. What was I to do? Relieve her of the embarrassment of calling me a friend? Send her home? All of these thoughts circled around my head, but I neglected to notice Molly’s and Jack’s actions and words. Jack had felt bad for making me upset and Molly was trying to comfort me. Although they knew I was crying for a stupid reason, they cared. All the social implications I acquired as I grew up told me not to cry because I would not have friends if I did. Yet here Jack and Molly were trying to genuinely consol me. I cry a lot but people care a lot. I may be the youngest, sensitive, and pathetic, but I cry and I am proud of it. Molly, to this day, is my best friend and years later I found out that Jack had a crush on me. I am still confused by boys but not afraid to cry.