Rant

I was glad to see my mom. She wore me out. I was glad to see her go. Now, she calls, and sometimes I don’t answer. Or I do, but I don’t say much.

It doesn’t seem to jade her, I doubt she notices. She talks and talks, and doesn’t ask how I am. She talks about how she’s losing weight, or how her hair gets so many compliments since the visit to the salon here in France – my birthday gift to her. She rambles incessently about missing me making her italian coffee or aperitif on the patio, bringing out olives and saucisson. 

Vacation was wonderful, and exhausting. She wore me out.

How do you tell the woman who birthed you that you are tired of having to nurture her, to care for her as if she were your child? How do you explain to her that you don’t even expect her to be there for you, that you know her better than that, but your heart’s desire, is just to sit around a table and talk fow hours about something new, meaningful, the subject more interesting than the food that is in your mouth?

How do you explain to her that if you are quiet it is because you have already heard this monologue ten thousand times, and that you esteem that if someone cuts off your every sentence it is because they do not believe that you have anything interesting to say?

I could say that I am sad since her visit, but that would not be true.

I can breathe, I feel lighter, grateful to have escaped some kind of bitter, shallow circle. I am thankful for Manboy and the simplicity of my life, for evenings on our own terrace, now that we are no longer on vacation, and rosé loosening the tongue. I am thankful that with him I am home.