What Was She Thinking?

Even though I don't write as much as I once did, I'm still reading. Reading all kinds of things and I'm starting to wonder if that isn't one of the cycles that's been set up in my life. Like fluctuating 10 pounds over the course of a few years or preferring citrus to chocolate (although, I still think both if that's an option...hence the 10 pounds). I try to absorb so much information throughout the day that it can be downright intimidating to try regurgitating a fraction of it. There's also the matter of my attention span but let's step off the couch for a bit, right?

Not sure why my thoughts for this post started that way but what I meant was- I'm still reading. I'm reading a lot of blogs in some kind of mass effort to get as many first-hand accounts of lives I won't have a chance to live as I can. That is my favorite thing about blogs although what a ridiculous word for someone to use as many times a day as I do. Blog. Sounds like a Star Wars creature. I'd rather write a wookie, if we're going to whine.

GoodNIGHT I cannot seem to stay on topic. I read. I read blogs. I read mom-blogs. There it is. Two paragraphs to get there, alas, there it is. Part of this is work-related as many of my projects benefit from a mom's perspective and most people don't count HC. Part of it is fascination. I have myself convinced on several levels that the more I know about being a mom now, the unexpected pitfalls, humiliations and hilarities, the better prepared I'll be when it's my turn. Although the more I read, the further away that date seems to get. Plus it's a total farce as any of these moms would tell you. No amount of reading is going to prepare me for it but I try just the same and I get to look a ridiculously cute kids doing funny things in the process. My favorite Nashville blogger is preggo and will attest to the fact that I am enthralled. So can one of my favorite Chicago bloggers, actually. I'm with a lot of them this weekend actually- in Nashville for BlissDom.

I often think to myself how lucky these kids are that they will know who their mother was as she was raising them. Her feelings on things as they grew up. The genuine hurt and anger and EXHAUSTION that is inflicted or inspired by children. More so, the total joy and belly-aching laughter as little personalities begin to develop. Or big personalities for that matter.

I can't help but wonder what my own Mom would have said. What tales of they day she would have recounted- many things that I probably wouldn't remember. Or would remember very differently. Particularly in the tween years. Like when I decided to change the spelling of my name. Or decided to go ahead with my first real date even though I had a demonic black eye from a softball accident (bet you didn't know TKTC was a Varsity letter-holder. It's okay to be surprised, pretty sure it was pure pity).

We went to Paris for my first time when I was 13. Apart from maybe a 2 hour window when I was able to successfully buy flowers and a bag of cherries at a market in French (life dream at 13, not bad), I was a resplendent bitch the entire time. I know that's harsh but it's true. I remember knowing it at the time and not having a clue as to how I could snap out of it. I have some fantastic memories of the trip but wow. Really lil TKTC? You really could not handle one more museum so you sat outside the MUSEE D'ORSAY and sulked? On second thought, maybe I wouldn't want my mom's honest account of that one...

I guess that's one of the interesting points of difference between our generations. There's a certain amount of narcissism that comes with maintaining an account of your own perspectives and that's just not my mom. Recently she sent along the kind of email I remember filling out on AOL circa 1998 about favorite colors and what shoes you're wearing and what your favorite place or saddest memory is. I was shocked that she'd filled it out and even more surprised at how much I learned and how nice it was to see her voice in writing, in a way that I was accustomed to hearing from friends. Maybe this is just a new form of self-absorption- tell me about me, from your perspective. But that's not really the part that interests me-it's who she was when all I could think of was what I was becoming.