Mom and Me

Someone recently said to me that I was just like my mother, and the comment wasn't meant as a compliment. Thinking about that remark, I realize that the older I get, the less I really knew or understood my mother. I find myself becoming more closed in to myself, trying not to let anyone know what is going on inside my head, or even my heart. Some things are too painful to think about, much less talk about with someone else. Still, I do not consider myself a cold and uncaring person.

Do others see me the way I see myself? Probably not. Do they see me the way I would like to be seen? Probably not. I don't even know what that is, but I know it can change almost every day.

I am coming to have new respect for my mother, although I don't think I will ever forget some of the things she said that could have been said better. I, too, have a tendency to be too blunt in my conversation, not thinking how what I say will come across to someone else. I also have a tendency to not talk to friends often enough, thinking that if they want to talk to me, they will call. I can remember telling my mother, when she complained that I didn't call her very often, that the phone worked both ways. Now I have to remember that. The problem is that I am by nature a quiet person who usually doesn't have a lot to say that anyone else would be interested in. Was my mother that way, too?

Take this blog–why would anyone else want to read it? It amazes me when someone comments on what I have to say, or is even interested enough to read it. I know why I write it–because I have to. And I do let my FB friends know when I post a new one, even though it seems a bit presumptuous. Still, here's another one.

And I think I am more like my mother every day.