Just the other day Aaron Malachi came out with a question that captures the unfortunate essence of what it means to be a man in America.

He was sitting – well, actually, squirming – on the edge of the kitchen counter while we engaged in one of our frequent ticklefests. Ticklefests are frequent because Aaron’s laughter is so guttural, so free and unrestrained, that it is a joy to hear. A seven-year-old may struggle to keep a straight face as grown-up fingers poke at armpits and pectorals, but a five-year-old is still young and UN-self-conscious enough to completely abandon both body and mind to explosive release of laughter.

Though most grown-ups detest it, daily tickling would probably greatly benefit our health. Research has shown that frequent laughter improves the functioning of the immune system; Norman Cousins in his well-known book Anatomy of an Illness describes how he shook off an immunological disorder by subjecting himself to repeated showing of Laurel and Hardy and Abbott and Costello movies. The laughing cure, it’s called.

But during our recent ticklefest Aaron pulled himself away and his face assumed a serious cast. He raised a small hand to my cheek.

"Daddy," he said, knitting his brow, "do you ever cry? Did you ever cry when you were little?"

I was taken aback. Of course, I can cry. I felt like responding. I can walk, I can talk. I can work. I can drive a car, and I can cry.

But the truth of the matter is that I do walk, talk, work, and drive – but I don’t cry. I suppose I could, and I vaguely remember when I last did, but saying that I do cry is akin to saying that I can throw a discus eighty yards because I did it once on a summer afternoon twenty-five years ago.

"You never cried even once while I was alive," Aaron persisted. And he was right. In all the years he had been on the planet, tears had never crossed my cheeks. I did get a little choked up in the birthing room as I watched him emerge into the world – but, what with all the nurse and all, I restrained myself.

No, Aaron had never seen me cry – he’d seen me laugh, seen me silent, and he’d seen me angry. Oh, yes, he’d seen me angry lots of times.

For that’s what men do – men get angry. They don’t get sad, they get even, or they try to, anyway, and they usually end up farther behind than ever. The fact that the average man dies about seven years earlier than the average woman has stimulated research into the reasons for this discrepancy, resulting in the widespread belief that "Type A" personalities – hard-driving, ambitious achiever types – are at considerably increased risk of heart disease and early death. But recent studies indicate it is not Type A behavior that is the culprit but rather anger, frequent, misdirected, festering anger, which slowly wears down men and ultimately kills them.

The big hypothesis is that men get angry because they are afraid to be sad, to cry. Testosterone and social conditioning may play a role, but the man in the midst of a furious tirade may is also afraid to say, honestly and forthrightly, that his feelings have been hurt. Anger is easier, less risky. Anger is the modern male addiction, and like most addictions, in time it is fatal.

It is not purely coincidental that Aaron should ask me about crying while in the midst of a bout of laughter. Laughter and weeping are intimately related and may even be slightly different forms of the same emotional release.

Many years ago, a few days after graduating from college, I was sitting around with some classmates cracking jokes before we said farewell to each other and took our separate directions in life. Suddenly, after a friend made a particularly riotous comment, my tears of hysterical laughter transformed ever so imperceptibly into tears of grief – sobbing, gut wrenching grief.

The grief was well disserved, I can see now. I was leaving behind friends, a home, a community of which I would never again be a part. But even though I was among friends who would have understood and even shared my sadness, I was embarrassed, and I stifled my grief out of shame at my tears.

And, now that I think about it, that may have been the last time I cried – quite a few years, as Aaron said, before he was alive. I wonder how this has affected Aaron, what he has learned from seeing me funny, seeing me angry, but never once seeing me wholly, truly sad. Maybe it means that I will know him seven years less that I would have, had I had access to my tears.

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Thanks - - Sue & Joe

"Wild Tulips"
Raising Parents in a Complex World
by Beth Bruno
hosted by Joe Spataro
Beth Bruno is the author of Wild Tulips, which is a collection of entertaining tales about parenting. She has always been "fascinated by people - their motives, emotions, what makes them tick." As a school psychologist, her philosophy is not to solve problems for people, but rather "to help people discover their inner resources and create ways to help themselves." In this interview with Beth, she discusses how living life is akin to gardening; what lessons her book can teach homeschoolers; a little bit about Beth's daughter Nikki; her approach to dealing with school districts; and an essay on "special" education that focuses on bringing out the strengths in our children. She is available for your questions and we hope to have a lively discussion.