My parents live only a few miles from me; yet we probably see each other less than families with an entire ocean between them. Yesterday, I decide I have put it off long enough and drive over to visit. In the forty-five minutes I was there, my mom felt the need to tell me the following things wrong with me:
- I am fat (trust me, I am not fat).
- My bra was all wrong.
- My hair was too long.
- I am not married (though she likes the boyfriend).
- I am supposedly focusing upon my career when I should be married and pregnant.
- I never went to college.
- Why was I not a nurse or a teacher like I used to talk about becoming?
- I do not visit enough (she has never been to my apartment).
- I do not call enough.
- I was wearing boots she did not like.
- I did not study hard enough in high school.
- My friends were all a bad influence.
And that is only a partial list.
I suppose it should hurt my feelings, but the truth is that I stopped feeling hurt a long time ago. I have always known, on some level, that nothing I do will ever be good enough for her . . . and I suppose that means I can never be good enough for her. I just think that a mom should make her daughter feel good about herself, not about ready to cry every time I leave.
Okay, enough meloncholy. I have many more tales about Harley. Soon, I promise.