I was going to write a sappy post in light of Mother’s day. But I decided to reblog this instead, even though its kind of depressing and doesn’t really fit. But it kind of defines our relationship. And since I initially posted this more than a year ago, not many of you will have read it.
Sometimes I wonder what kind of a child my mother imagined I would be, and contrast that with how I’ve turned out in actuality. It is both a depressing and an amusing picture. The obedient, caring, cheerful girl she probably wanted has been replaced by this sarcastic, debating, selfish individual.
So I’m smart in studies, and she admits this as a good trait – yet I have this strong impression that my mother would rather I were a little dumber and more tractable, than this smart and difficult to handle. And I really am difficult to handle. Wayward, obstinate – I back up all my arguments and rarely admit to being wrong.
My ideas, my constant desire to question, doubt, investigate – my interest in things that I have no business being interested in – dance, philosophy, art – I think of these as things that make me special. But…
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