If you've read the baby books, which seems to be the way of the modern mother, you've heard about the "fourth trimester."

Back in my mom's day, she tells me, you didn't have any mamby pamby ultrasounds, and you didn't even go for your first prenatal visit until you had missed two periods and had been throwing up regularly.

There certainly was not a "fourth trimester," the time after the baby's birth when its former surroundings are recreated via swaddling, dim lighting, etc. In my mom's case, her fourth trimester after I was born consisted of taking care of her two young children while mourning the death of her father and permanently imprinting in my mind the vision of her in a green mummu with white polka dots.

I submit my own term: the fourth crymester. It's what the mom goes through postpartum. Our baby Lily is fine. I wish I could say the same for my emotions. Anything can trigger the post natal waterworks. While crying, I always recognize that my tears are essentially absurdist creations brought on by bodily chemicals.

There are perfectly reasonable explanations for this behavior, mothers, and yet, we cry on.
Grandma wants to buy the baby a new carriage? It's so thoughtful you could (and do) cry.

No snow yet? You mourn that your baby will never see snow. Why did you bring your baby into a world without snow? You're not sure, but it's surely worth crying over.

Baby's tear duct is blocked? Could there be anything sadder? Response: cry.

So as Lily sleeps peacefully in her crib--with dry eyes--I'm off--to swaddle myself, turn the lights down low, and have the tissues within arm's reach.