*sigh*

My mother.

I could just say that and leave it, but I don't think I say enough about the woman who spawned me. And I should. I really should.

Don't get me wrong--she managed to not murder me several times (although, even with hindsight, some of her murderous bent was just about her, and I happened to be the hapless fool who stumbled into her rage); she has managed to not totally alienate me or my siblings; we rent this house from her for a more than fair price and we get to pretty much do as we please to it as long as the structure itself remains intact (although how much of that is related to the volume of other people's crap still being stored in that attic and garage is debatable). All in all, it could be worse.

But it doesn't change the fact that for all her lip servicing of praise and appreciation of my so-called talents, she just can't bring herself to say anything like "damn that was good" when I write something truly excellent.

I mean, c'mon! I write what is basically a meditation on a scripture or quote (and this month, it's a joke) for our church's newsletter--let me correct that. I write the whole dang thing, and this meditation/opening is part of that.

Some of them are mediocre. Some of them are good. This coming months is kick-in-the-ass excellent. It's a show-stopper, a sermon to remember, a totally great piece of my mind and soul.

And her response to it?

"Who wrote that?"

This is the comment she made after laughing in all the right places. This is what I get after all the appropriate responses.

This is the comment that sticks with me AFTER my husband, son, sister, and the priest read it--and say it's "really good."

She seemed, I kid you not, actually pissed when I said I wrote it.

I guess what bugs me is that she did this years ago after my sister showed her one of the poems I had written. My mother's comment BEFORE knowing who wrote it was, "Wow. That's really good. You should show that to your sister." (sister = me)

Once she learned that *I* had written it, it suddenly had faults.

Yeah, it was like 18 years ago, and THIS is what I remember.

I don't get it--how can a woman who tells me on a yearly basis that I have talent--gifts, really--that I should have pursued (and that it's not too late to do so) be so hyper-critical of what is PROOF that she is correct?

Especially in light of WHY I'm writing some of what I'm writing. I mean, it's not like I'm hiding it away and waiting til I die for someone to realize I'm good at it. It's not like, even as teenager/young adult I was writing all sorts of lovey-dovey hearts and flowers tripe or doom-gloom black black and die teen angst crapola.

Even what I suppose would be considered love poems had an edge--a sharp, prick you kind of edge.

I'm not saying that because I'm vain--I'm saying it because I read widely (even tripe and crapola) and can honestly say that, if I weren't the author of what I write, I'd still like it.

Yeah, *trumpet my own horn*, I'm THAT good.

And I'm taking it seriously again--I'm actually trying to do something with it. Other than amuse and delight myself, I mean. I'm writing this crapola, and I write about the Spawnlings for tripe. I write/edit/create/makeup the church newsletter for non-court ordered community service. I am going, next month, to a one-day writer's conference--dragging some of the tripe, crapola, and community service with me for unbiased and possibly eye-opening honest (and probably cruel) opinions.

The possibilities of deflating my little red wagon's wheels are endless.

But why does my own mother think that she should be the one to "keep [me] in my place" and "take [me] down a peg or two"?