A Mom Moment

Living with the oldies meant talking to the Belle all the time. She would just wander into my office. Most communiation with my mother is by phone or email. Last week we cracked each other up by counting phone calls. We didn't say "hello," we said, "This is my number six phone call today."

My mother is my harshest critic. She's allowed. We find it funny because I welcome it. She programmed me well. Plus, she's usually right so I've learned to pay attention.

On the flip side, she can be fiercely protective. If someone is treating me like dirt, she will be on my side yet, she expects me to fix it. She may give wise advice. She may provide counsel. She won't fix it for me.

I can run to her and become a crumbling heap. She'll scoop me up and tell me she loves me. She expects me to stand tall.

My spine is a little stronger after every conversation with my mother -- even when we get snarly. I want to stand tall. I want to do it for me and I don't want to let her down.

Sometimes it takes six or seven conversations in one day to get the message through to me.