Who’s been a bad blogger? Yes, I’ve been a bad blogger, but I won’t offer up any part of my ass for a spanking as it’s still a bit sore from a spill I took this weekend on a concrete floor. Sigh, I could explain it…but that wasn’t the point of this post at all.
During a routine Sunday visit with mother dear, I found her in the midst ot writing a “Dear John” letter. It wasn’t via text message. It wasn’t even via email. My mother actually had a pen and a composition book on her kitchen table and was penning a letter to her boyfriend.
She explained that he had been avoiding her and wasn’t returning her calls and so the only way she could get him to listen to her would be to write him a letter. He had no other choice but to read it, right?
And my mother was very excited about it. “Get this,” she said. “It begins with, ‘I don’t have to eat the whole cake to know it’s cake.'” I smile, excited for her and wanting to hear more, which, of course she wouldn’t give. I’m still her kid after all.
But it all just reminded me of when I was younger and would see her notebooks scattered around the house where she would be in the middle of writing letters to my father even though they lived under the same roof, trying to get some point across that she couldn’t when face to face. It carried on over the years after my parents divorced and my mother dated other people.
I was a sneak and I read things I shouldn’t have- my mom’s Dear John’s, steamy romances, but walking into that on that day reminded me so much of myself and what I do now with my stacks of notebooks that I snatch and hide from my own daughter.
I write a whole host of things in addition to letters when I feel that I’m not being heard. And in a tme when I once felt that I was nothing like my mother at all, that she must have rescued me from another planet, I wonder if it’s even possible that she birthed me from her own ten fingers.