I was sitting on my couch tonight, finishing some editing work on my latest novel, when I decided to take a mental break and do some internet surfing. As I pulled up one of the trashy celebrity news websites, I read that John Travolta’s teenaged son had passed away in an apparent accident while the family was on vacation. It immediately struck me and I said a prayer for their family. As a parent, I wanted to run down the hallway, scoop up my little munchkin out of bed and squeeze him good and tight.
And it’s like that nearly everytime I see a sad, tragic or even mildly upsetting story on the news. Ever since I had my son, I’m like a giant, open, walking wound waiting for a grain of salt. Everything reminds me of my son; it’s like I suddenly became inducted into this club. I share other parents’ pain, joy and emotion and before I know it, I’m tearing up at some dumb diaper commercial because they showed OMG! SUCH A CUTE BAYBEE!
I used to be the girl with the emotions of steel. The girl who scoffed at her mother (at the tender age of three) for crying at the end of E.T. And you know what? It was kind of nice to be able to see a movie or read a news article without internalizing misfortune or heart-wrenching emotion.
But now? Forget it. Having my son turned me into a sap. A complete 180. And it’s never going to change. And thinking about the future, of him going off to school, getting teased by other kids, skinning his knees on asphalt…
Anyone know where I might be able to find a nice big plastic bubble?
