By Ed Damon

Let me describe a scene for you. I’ll try to be specific, but it could be any of the at least two dozen times I’ve walked in on the same thing. I could be coming home from work, or I could be getting out of the shower. My wife and two girls could be sitting on the couch or curled up at the foot of the bed. It doesn’t really matter where they are. What matters is that my oldest girl has buried her head in her mothers lap. My wife is clutching on to her and our newborn as if terrorists had taken them hostage, and they’re crying. That’s right, they are crying; all three of them. I can see the glossy reflection of tears streaked down my wife’s face. Even the little one is crying little infant versions of grown-up tears. My first daughter is down right blubbering; snot filled tears and choked gasps for breath.

What’s my first thought? Someone must have died; someone close. No matter how many times I witness this scene, my mind automatically rejects all other explanations. If I had the same capacity for learning as say, your common lab rat, I’d be well aware that it’s just another “favorite” toy broken or some slight from another girl. It’s the sort of thing boys would throw a few quick punches about, possibly blacken an eye, then move on and forget. I should be aware of this, but my mind apparently lacks the receptors to connect three sobbing women with some ridiculously trivial event. It’s like looking at one of those pictures that spells the word BLUE in red ink, so what do I do?

I ask, “What’s wrong?”

You might already be hitting the punch line drum roll, but give me some credit. I’m actually concerned. Maybe somebody did die. How terrible would I feel if I snubbed my daughters grieving the loss of their grandmother? Besides, I haven’t even begun to broach the scope of my stupidity. For starters, I actually expect a coherent answer. Like the rat that keeps biting the electrified cheese, I’m still hoping for a response that is at least loosely associated by some logic to the question I asked.

Instead, I get some strange guttural noise from my oldest that I have roughly translated to mean either “you wouldn’t understand”, “Leave me alone”, or “I’m choking on snot bubbles, please save me.” I’m not sure which. I’m still working on the grammar. This is where my capacity for stupidity really begins to shine.

“What?” I repeat.

“It’s nothing,” my wife finally says.

At this point even the lab rats are telling me not to eat the funny cheese, but I can’t help it. It’s sparkly. No matter how many times I make the same mistake, I can’t seem to process the fact that at this point I should accept the answer and make a dignified exit.

Instead, I announce, “I can tell something’s wrong,” as if it took frick’n Sherlock Holmes to figure that one out. Oh yeah, I keep pressing the issue; saying things like “You can’t just sit there crying and tell me nothing’s wrong.” I’m no longer just nibbling the electric cheese; oh no. I’m scoffing it down, and telling all the other rats that I like the zesty kick. Even as my wife tries to answer and my daughter begs her not to, I am still demanding a response. Then I get it.

I don’t care how many times I am hit with the realization that these women are crying, crying, over absolutely nothing. It never loses its impact. My jaw drops. I’m torn between anger and confusion. It’s like I’m being cursed at in a foreign language; unprovoked. I can’t figure out how to respond, so naturally my response is probably the worst one I could have come up with.

“That’s ridiculous,” I say.

My wife is already on the defensive. She gives me a cold stare, and the girls mimic her like lion cubs pretending to hunt with their mother. Even the little one’s eyes get squinty. I’m hopelessly outnumbered.

“It is not ridiculous. She’s really upset,” my wife says. Then she adds, “Sometimes you just need a good cry.”

These last words are spoken as irrevocable fact. As the only male in my house, I must accept that the necessity for a good cry is as indisputable as the need to crap. I could argue, but even the dumb rat won’t keep biting the electrode after the cheese is gone. I grudgingly accept the crying session in the way a sociologist accepts an inexplicable facet of a jungle tribe’s culture. I don’t think I’ll ever understand the whole crying thing, but then again I’ve seen mothers at the park express equal confusion over the good natured and healthy fist fights of their son’s. I guess some things are to be accepted, not understood.