Moms can be great.
Mine is no exception.
Through financial woes and times of frightening "we may lose the house" instances- she always managed to pull through. And even now, with rheumatism racking her fragile body, she's still willing to come to my house and help me clean in preparation for party guests and to run after my niece in all her three-year-old hyper glory.
But then we have conversations like these where my definition as the family "accident" comes very much into play:
"I don't think I'm going to go back to Grad School next semester. Just don't think it's for me," I said while twirling a lock of frizzy hair in front of my eyes.
"I never thought it was. I never have thought that English was your strong point, that being a writer was something you were meant to do. I mean, you're good at it, but it's not your strong point," she said.
I was stunned.
"Well, then, what do you think I should be doing?" I asked, waiting to hear what she thought the fates had in store for me.
"I don't know - but certainly not writing..." she trailed off.
Frankly speaking, I'm not worth much. I'm not the life of the party, I don't have culinary skills that would wow Rachel Ray and her cheatin' hubby, I do not possess the mindset to be able to become a chess prodigy, nor do I see myself discovering the cure for cancer or baldness.
But I'm funny.
And I can write things that, on the occasion, people find amusing.
So how is this not my strong point?
How is something that I love to do - not what I'm "meant" to do?
And why, at 28 years young, do I still care what my mother thinks of me and my occupational destiny?
Now, sitting at my crappy desk, facing the crappy elevator shaft and wallowing in crappy self-pity I realize that I've done all of this to myself. I've convinced others that my self-worth is that only slightly above a wheat penny and that I'm of no consequence.
Would Freud blame this on my mother? Maybe.
Would he be right? Maybe.
Well, huh. Perhaps THIS is the perfect example of why I'm so hesitant to spawn...