Sometimes I wonder what it's like to be my mother. She's a ball of anxiety and undiagnosed ADHD that she passed onto my brothers. And probably me if I'm being honest.
She's kind and smart but some days I doubt she believes she's either of those things. She's pretty and has a smile I'm so glad I inherited, I don't think she thinks she pretty, which makes me sad in a way words can't express.
She's a romantic, likes puzzles, Gerber Daisys, and she loves foxes specifically to spite my uncle.
She loves kids more than anything, said to me she once wanted six, she decided to become an ECE so she could care for them long after me and my brothers had exited that stage.
She tells me stories of what she was like as a young adult. A little wild, extroverted, already in love with my father.
I think, "what must she think of me?"
I'm aroace, she knows, and I think it confuses her because I'm just as much a romantic as her. My eyes are just turned outward, rather then inward like hers.
I think I'm very pretty, I think I got it from her. I always wanted to look like her as a child, wanted her curls so bad, I never managed to get them. Which is odd because she used to tell me she hated taking care of them.
A woman so keen on taking care of life raised a daughter to want nothing more than to be a mortician. I hope she understands that the empathy it takes to do that job came from her.
Today she gave me a box of old jewelry from a work colleague and there was a poison capsule ring and I shrieked it delighted that "there's a poison ring in here!" I think I gave her a heart attack.
I like writing, reading, odd things, and love roses specifically to spite alloromantics.
She told me once that she was jealous of how confident I was. I can't understand why she isn't, I got a lot of who I am from her.
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theartofmadeline
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