Entries Tagged 'family' ↓

Two weeks ago, I was standing at the bus stop waiting for the L8. It was 6 p.m., a Sunday. I saw a group of kids from Corvallis, Oregon. I know they were from Corvallis, because they were wearing sweatshirts from their middle/high school that bore this name. They had three teachers as chaperons. They couldn’t have been older than 14 years old.

When I see kids that age, I can fully recognize that I am significantly older. That I am, in fact an adult. Yes, with a pronounced “a.” I have the pay stubs to prove it.

But as I glanced at them, I suddenly realized– they aren’t just younger than me. They’re younger than my baby sister! My sister who celebrates her 17th birthday this Friday, the 28th! Talk about how time flies– when did she get to be so old? I remember when I was 17! (Glad that’s over).

My sister and I have had a choppy relationship for most of her 17 years. Most of it was my fault. I was distant, cold, even mean. I can’t fully explain why. Part of it was probably me being wrapped up in my fears, insecurities and other thoughts.

I’m at a stage now, though, where I am much, much happier. And as a result, I’m nicer to her than I’ve probably ever been.

S will be here in mid-April, visiting for six weeks. A chance for us to reconnect, and for her to know that I’ve got her back.

——

Addendum: the title for this post is a song lyric by one of S’s favorite bands.

My mother just saw my cousin’s new-born babies and pronounced them to be  “monkey-like” and “so small, I didn’t want to touch them.” And she said this in as cheery a voice as she uses when talking about breakfast, or a joke.

My sister and I pointed out that she probably said the same sort of unpleasant things about us. She insists that she did not. “I’ve never found other babies remotely interesting or cute,” she told me on the phone last week. “But you and Shon were adorable!”

Maternal instinct. It really comes in all forms.

Just read a piece in the NYT about a writer who joined Facebook, and how her teenage daughter hates it. Heh. I don’t think I’d care if my parents joined Facebook. My profile is clean– no pictures of me half-naked trying to doing a keg stand or something idiotic like that. I doubt they will though. They’re still wrapping their brain around this whole idea of “blogging.”

Below, a conversation with my mother about blogging:

 Mum: How do you say it? Blawwg?

Me: Blog. Like log. With a B in front.

Mum: Huh. So it’s like a web diary?

Me: Yup, exactly.

Mum: Why would you want someone to read your diary?

Me: Well it’s not a PRIVATE diary, although I could make one if I wanted to. It’s more like “this is my life, aren’t I funny? Now comment!”

Mum: People can comment?

Me: Yea, there’s a feature for them to leave comments.

Mum: How do they know you even have a blog?

Me: Cuz I tell them.

Mum: Oh, so only your friends read it?

Me: No, strangers stop by.

Mum: Strangers? How do they know?

Me: It involves linking.

Mum: Linking?

Me: Forget it.

I have no fear of my mother EVER reading my blog. Or joining Facebook. Or switching on a computer, for that matter.