A Bhive-Sized Group Hug Cry

They hadn't noticed the tears already leaking out the corners of both my eyes. I kept wiping them away quickly, not because I was ashamed for crying, but because I worried it would make them upset.

The Mama was away at a Kidpower workshop and Daddy was in charge. The girls and I already had a happy afternoon of pizza and ice cream and then we came home to watch the animated movie Home, a story about friendship and looking out for the friends and family you love.

This of course was an unrealistic wish, for them to not see me cry, since both girls are older now and more aware of themselves and the world around them, their level of empathy awakened forever. And the fact that they've already seen Daddy cry many times. Thank goodness for this, both seeing Daddy cry and their awakened empathy. And although they're still young, the Mama and I have nurtured their emotional intelligence since the first glimpse of their empathic differentiation.

I am a proud, self-admitted cryer. Happy or sad, my tears have flowed freely from my earliest memories. I still remember quite vividly my 4th grade teacher Mr. Tapilaris reading Where the Red Fern Grows to the class, the story of a boy and his dogs. The year before my parents had gotten divorced and my beloved Australian Shepard at the time, Poco was her name, went to live with my soon to be estranged birth father.

But I never was teased much if at all about being a cryer. That's always struck me as odd growing up being a boy and not being teased for being a girlie-girl or a sissy or a cry-baby. It was just never a thing for me, my immediate friends or family or others who knew me, so from the outsiders' perspective, it wasn't a thing for them either.

So the Mama and I don't want it to be a thing for Beatrice or Bryce growing up either. We want them to be comfortable of their own emotional responses to those they come in contact with throughout their lives and the world at large. The Mama is not a cryer like I am, although I've seen her cry. We tease each other about our respective crying thresholds, but it's always about embracing what makes up our whole selves and why we love each other.

Bryce is like me this way, the intense deep feeler who's up and down and up and down and all heart smeared all over her sleeves and every other inch of her, light years from impulse control. Even when I finally overcame the impulse drive, I still cry at almost anything laced with happy or sad.

Up until quite recently we thought Bea was more like the Mama as well. However, after I had already been crying during the movie Home, I looked over at Bea sitting on our couch and she had her new signature crying face queued up -- both sets of fingers shoved into her mouth as if she were trying to stop herself from throwing up. Then the tears welled and flowed freely. That was then the catalyst for Bryce to start crying, and in a New York minute all three of us were crying.

Channeling the Mama, I did take the time to discuss why the girls (and me) were feeling what they were feeling. I'm proud to be empathically balanced Big Daddy Girl and don't think of it as a derogatory label, at least not in the context of a Bhive-sized group hug cry.

You feel me?

Always Be the Titter to Our Totter

SPOILER ALERT: I'm giving away the Big Hero 6 climax, so read on at your own risk...

The part where Baymax sacrifices himself to save Hiro and the daughter of the misguided bad guy. That's the part that hit her so hard and fast that every fiber of her little being ached with sadness and burned with free-flowing tears.

So much so we had to stop the Big Hero 6 movie for a bit. Bryce cried and cried, struggling to breathe and regain the composure she had prior to that point. Over 15 minutes later we finally resumed and finished the movie.

Yes, we know it was a PG-rated movie and there was violence and death and dark action and loss and sadness and why in God's name were we letting our four-year-old watch this thing. But we've been melting our children's brains since we inadvertently let them watch The Incredibles two years ago thinking it was G, when it was actually PG, so there's that proud parenting milestone.

But hey, they're both Disney movies with heart-felt familial themes and the girls had been really wanting to see Big Hero 6, so we did, and they loved it.

When Bryce cried you could see the loss on in her wet, bleary red eyes and puffy ashen face. It was palatable, visceral and it glowed with the degenerative density of a white hot dwarf star. Her life experience may be very little to date, but mercy me does life move this little fireball. The Mama held her close and both Beatrice and me consoled her as well.

After the movie Bryce wanted us to make a Baymax for her to play with, but not the real one. She was very clear about it not being real, her emotional response still raw loss. I made one, although I'm not sure if it ended up more like a ghostly E.T. than a short-armed Baymax.

Anyway, Bryce is like me this way, the intense deep feeler who's up and down and up and down and all heart smeared all over her sleeves and every other inch of her, light years from impulse control. Even when I finally overcame the impulse drive, I still cry at almost anything laced with sentimentality, loss and redeeming hope. The Mama loves that about her man for those of you keeping score at home.

And conversely like me (something the Mama doesn't care for), Bryce can be a Daddy Goat Gruff when she's "all done" with whatever she's doing and not afraid to let you know that. The bark without a bite doesn't make it right, but dammit, when we're all done we're all done.

Up and down and up and down -- cry, snap, sniff.

Ah, my baby girl feeler -- unlike her sister and mother, both of whom respond with uncomfortable (but heartfelt) inappropriate tittering laughter when faced with sadness and tragedy. We love them, but c'mon. It's just weird.

Anyway, I hope in 40 years Bryce will feel just as deeply as she does today, that she'll cry at the sticky sweet and the sad -- and that Beatrice and the Mama will always be the titter to our totter.