Mother's Week: Rose Colored Glasses.

Growing up, my mother made me do a lot of things I didn't want to do, embarrassing things like sing in front of the church with my brothers. I always claimed to hate it, but the reason I hated it was because she made me do it. But if I'm honest, I liked the attention. I suppose that makes me a diva. But this isn't about my neurosis. It's mother's day... which I will be stretching out a bit, because my mother is that special. So here's to mom and all the ways that she inspires me. A week of writing is far too little thanks.


My mother claims I looking at the past with rose colored glasses. If she means that I'm leaving out her less noble traits, well maybe, but I'm trying to reveal the core of who my mother was and is, who I know and remember her to be. Maybe I am guilty of idealizing, but that's only because the things that stick the most are the things that were repeated most often. Maybe I'm blocking out memories of her hitting me with a baseball bat; it's more likely that she's just a fantastic woman, which is why it doesn't surprise me that people I rarely talk to are coming out of the woodwork to comment and like the links to these posts on my facebook wall. They are only more evidence that what I'm saying is quite true.