Something happened to me when I became a mother. Almost instantly after giving birth I found myself never wanting anyone to feel sad again. When my team (or my husband's, more accurately put) won last night, I was elated and jumped up and down shouting YESSSS WOOHOO HIP HIP! And then I remembered that someone lost, too, and as the camera panned over to the losing team my heart broke with them.
I'm like the scene in Mary Poppins when Mary, Bert, and the kids go to visit that laughing guy on the ceiling and they laugh laugh laugh and float around doing flips and telling jokes until Mary tells them that they must leave and the sadness of it all makes them sink down to the floor with a "that's so, so sad".
I kid you not, this is the new motherly me. I'm hoping this hatred of sadness is simply hormonal and will disappear with time.
Last night after the Giants won and Sean and I jumped on each other cheering and squeezing and laughing quietly enough so as not to wake the baby, there suddenly stood a man on the TV, a Mr. Kraft, I'm told, owner of the Patriots. The newscaster announced that he lost his wife of many years this summer and now has lost the Super Bowl. Mr. Kraft, unknowing of the cameras, stood alone by a row of empty seats and looked up as if he was talking to his deceased wife. I started to sink from my happy place on the ceiling. First he lost his wife and now this. So, so sad.
I haven't been able to be happy about the big win since. I keep thinking about how sad everyone who didn't win must be feeling today.
I think I've inherited a mother's soul.
