Over the past few weeks, Thalia’s school has had these “all about me” days in which each child gets to show the class some of her favorite things, read her favorite book, and for all I know lie back in a lounger being fed grapes by some bare-chested Disney character or something.

One of the other components is that the parents have to write a letter to their child.

Then come in. And read it.

To their child.

To everyone.

While I spend a good chunk of my time writing about Thalia here, I had yet to be faced with the daunting task of writing something about her, for her and read it right to her.

Which of course I did with tears streaming down my face as I rambled on about how proud I was of her and how far she’s come and how she makes everyone in her life so spectacularly happy. Man, it was brutal.

I couldn’t get the words “you’re a big girl now” out of my mouth and I just kind of did that stupid thing where I sputtered and smiled and fake fanned myself in front of a dozen kids and their teachers.

Why do we do that stupid fanning thing when we cry? Why do we wave our hands back and forth towards our chins like Janice from Friends? I need to put an end to that, stat. Because as it turns out, it doesn’t make the tears stop. Not even one bit.