You will cry because of your kids.

No matter how gentle a parent you are, or how much you try to insulate your children, eventually, maybe when they’re toddlers, and don’t understand what they’re saying, or maybe when they’re teenagers and say it specifically to hurt you, but they will tell you they hate you. And, you will cry.

You probably won’t let them see it. You will probably hold it together until you do it in private, away from them. Either because you don’t want them to know how much they can hurt you, or because you don’t want them to know they were successful at it.

You’ll cry after you drop them off at the bus stop for the first time. You’ll cry again when they drive away in the car by themselves for the first time.

You’ll cry when they have their hearts broken for the first, or the seventh time. You’ll cry when they don’t get picked for the “right team” or win the class election. All the while, you’ll be putting on a brave face and trying to show them how to be graceful in defeat and disappointment.

You’ll cry when they break a bone for the first time or need stitches. Or in one very specific case, when it takes every staff member to hold them down for their vaccinations. Sometimes, you cry because they just won’t stop crying, even if you don’t know what the reason is.

Worst of all, someday, you may have to cry with them, while you also cry for them, because you know their lives have been shattered in a way that no child’s life should ever be shattered.

G is turning 18 shortly, and it is not lost on me that two-thirds of my children will be adults. And, here they are, still making me cry.

Recently, A faced a competitive selective process and was chosen to craft and tell his story in a forum that means the world to him. It was a unique opportunity, and a recording of his performance has been added to an archive that will live on, hopefully, for generations.

He spent weeks honing his application and arguing with me about what to include and what to leave out. I managed to get through that without shedding many tears, although my head got banged a few times. He then had to go through months of peer editing, reviewing and developing his presentation.

It was tough on him, and I may have shed a few tears over his stress level. As he strode across the stage, in the spotlight, and began to speak, though, I found a different kind of tear rolling down my cheek.

The very next day, E and I had to go shopping for a winter formal dress. E and I have been dress shopping for years, although the last few trips have been a little stressful as she starting choosing styles that were not necessarily ones that I loved. I have tried my best to be supportive, but I guess my face isn’t as good at hiding my emotions sometimes.

At any rate, we had tried on just about every dress, and she wasn’t happy with any of them, and both of us were either near or in tears.

There was one navy blue sheath dress left, but the neckline and strap seemed weird to me. “Just give it to me,” she snapped, and marched into the dressing room. A few seconds later, this gorgeous, elegant, tall young woman was standing before me in a unique dress that suited her perfectly, and best of all, she knew she was rocking it.

Those tears started again.

And finally, it is the season for college admission interviews, which these days are mostly done over Zoom calls. G was supposed to take his in the guidance office at school, during a study hall, but a snow day had other plans. So, I sat at the top of the steps, doing my best to quietly eavesdrop, because the helicopter is still strong in me.

A few months ago, he shocked me with his eloquence and composure during his Eagle Scout Board of Review, so I wasn’t worried about how he would come across. I was more curious about what some of his answers would be.

While I knew that he would answer “my dad” when he was asked about his role models, I did not expect him to add “and my older brother.” Those darn tears started again.

Kids. They make you cry.

Liz Pinkey’s column appears on Saturdays in the Times News