I have a tricksy relationship with my mum. It’s not as close as I’d like it to be.
But I love her very much.
It’s funny because we have to reconcile this idea of our parents when we’re kids—the all-knowing, all-powerful, all-protective presence (if we’re lucky, and I was) with the reality of them as flawed human adults when we’re older.
It’s hard. Or it was for me.
I’m currently writing letters to my mum and grandma asking them all about their lives, because I’m a nosy sod. Also because I don’t want their stories to disappear from the world.
And it’s fabulous. I’m learning so many things about who they were and are, and I’m beginning to understand them better.
I find this easier than having a face to face conversation for a variety of reasons.
So I’m realising that my mum is a full, whole person outside of my experience of her as my mum.
I know that sounds obvious, but I hadn’t really thought of it like that before. I was just sad and angry that she didn’t continue to be the exact same person she was when I was 4. Which is utterly unreasonable and rather daft.
Anyway, this is today’s prompt. If it’s super-upsetting to dig into this, do ignore it with impunity.
Otherwise, you might be surprised at what comes out in a few minutes of writing.
p.s.Connect with me on Instagram and share your experience with the community. Share your writing if you want to—we’d love to read it! Tag @tinybeetlesteps and follow the hashtags #moxieAPRIL and #tinybeetlesteps
Notes in the Margin
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