I can’t stand to hear my daughter cry. It was different when she was a baby because crying was her only form of communication. But as she transformed from a babbling infant to a talking toddler, she clung to crying as part of her repertoire and I grew less tolerant. If she protested one of my decisions for too long, I told her to go to her room and return when she was done crying. This seemed to help.

            As her crying jags grew less frequent, they affected me even more. They made me realize how deeply she felt about things. Sometimes they made me question my own judgment. I hated myself for allowing her tears to weaken my resolve. If she were being punished for a poor choice, then cried, I reminded myself, “Lesson learned.” But it was still difficult for me.

            Once she entered school, I wanted her to control her outbursts better. I didn’t want her to crumble into tears over hurt feelings and be teased by the other kids. If she started to cry at home over a minor disagreement, I’d tell her to pull herself together.

            Just last week, her tutor told me that she had done well, but at one point, had disobeyed. When my daughter was instructed to write with a pencil, she kept writing with a marker. A permanent marker. The tutor told her it would soak through the paper, so my daughter continued writing. I nodded and walked my child out to the car.

My daughter smiled up at me, “Do I get a treat?” Often when she does well at tutoring, she gets a chocolate Frosty from the Wendy’s drive-thru.

“Not today,” I said. I lectured that she needed to show respect to the tutor and do as she says. This is when I got the explanation about how she was careful not to let the marker soak through the paper. I was torn, since most of the hour-long session had gone well. I drove past Wendy’s anyway. I didn’t want to reinforce her poor listening skills. And so she began to cry.

And cry. My shoulders clenched. My head throbbed. Fifteen minutes of sobs from the backseat felt like hours. I wondered if I’d made a mistake. I then worried if I caved, I’d teach her to cry even more. I considered telling her to pull herself together. But I decided to let her continue. Even when she ratcheted up the volume.

I turned on the radio to distract myself. Soon, the music soothed her, too, and she quieted. We were almost home when she said in a calm voice, “I have to tell you something weird, Mom.”

“What?” I asked, my body still tense.

“Crying made me feel better.”

I hadn’t expected that. All of those times I’d tried to stifle her tears, maybe I’d been denying her some kind of catharsis. Then I remembered an old “Everybody Loves Raymond” episode where Debra said sometimes she just needed a good cry. She’d put on the theme from Ice Castles and give in to her emotions.

“Isn’t that weird, Mom?” my daughter asked again. She seemed pleased with her discovery that tears can actually work like salve on a wound.

I don’t understand it, but what matters is that she does.

How about you? Do you believe in the healing power of tears?

If you're on the verge of tears, treat yourself to On the Verge, which tells of a single mom whose wonderful new husband hits his head and changes personalities. How long should she wait for her true love to return? What if he never does? Click here to learn more about On the Verge, which is "highly recommended" by the Midwest Book Review. (If nothing else, it'll distract you from your own problems). Please pass this along by clicking the buttons below. Thanks!

“I can’t wait to spoil her!” declared my mother-in-law the night my daughter entered this world. Both families had waited ten years for their first grandchild, while my husband and I had pursued higher education, established careers, and traveled. Finally the grandparents had someone for whom to buy a rocking horse—even though the baby wouldn’t be sitting up for months.


 Five years later, my daughter has grown into an energetic little girl who loves to run, dance and test her limits. I’m thrilled to be her mom, but sometimes I think grandmotherhood looks pretty appealing. It provides the opportunity to indulge without worrying about the consequences. How many people wouldn’t be tempted to skip childrearing and go straight to the role of grandparent? It would be like passing over the salad for dessert.

And the admiration goes both ways between grandparents and grandchildren. I loved my Grandma Ruth more than Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy combined. As far as I was concerned, she had no flaws. She bought me pink-frosted donuts for breakfast, took me to the movies, and warmed me with her bear hugs. I kept her picture in my bedroom and looked longingly at her gray hair and smiling brown eyes whenever I missed her. I also saved the letters she sent me from her house 500 miles away. One of my favorites was a card that looked like a piggy bank with little slots for ten dimes. She wrote and told me to use the money the next time the ice cream truck drove by. My own mother didn’t give me money for such things.

This card is still one of my treasured mementos and yet I haven’t revealed to my own daughter what that yellow truck that plays “Pop goes the Weasel” in our neighborhood is selling. What is wrong with me? I think it’s a combination of trying to eat nutritiously and avoid having to say “no.” So much of motherhood revolves around “no”. Ah, to be a grandparent and always say "yes".

My own parents, who taught me to delay gratification so well, have loosened up a bit and are enjoying retirement a mere two hour drive away. But to a five-year-old, getting there takes longer than forever. Today an envelope addressed to my daughter arrived from across the state. The letter inside said “The next time you visit, we can go swimming and do more embroidery.” Before I finished reading “We miss you”, my daughter's eyes widened and she asked if she could go visit Gran and Granddad right now.

She adores visiting her other grandma, too. When asked why she likes to go there, she explains that Grandma doesn’t make her take naps and she lives closer. I suspect Grandma’s endless supply of Disney DVDs also plays into this love affair.

When my daughter was born, I teared up thinking how lucky she was to live close to both sets of grandparents. She even has the opportunity to know her great-grandmother, an eighty-one-year-old dynamo who just returned from a trip to her hometown in Germany.

My daughter is lucky. And so am I. When I’m sleep-deprived, sitting in the pediatrician’s office for yet another ear infection, trying to figure out what I’m going to make for dinner, I need to remember that motherhood has its benefits. It’s an intense, amazing job with perks like holding a tiny hand while crossing the street and hearing a spontaneous “I love you” in the middle of dinner. I need to remember that these perks won’t last forever.                  

Then one day, I hope, I’ll be promoted to the status of grandmother. And I’ll never say the word “no” again.
Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to start practicing. I think I hear the ice cream truck now. . . .

YOUR TURN TO COMMENT: Which is better: being a mom or a grandmother?

Click to buy Karen Lenfestey's book: A SIster's Promise