After I posted about my daughter last night, my mom and sisters facetiously suggested I write something similar about them.
I guess the joke’s on them because I’m doing it.
Sadly, I believe my sudden interest in expressing my feelings may (or may not) be hormone/new medication related. I’ll keep it going as long as I can. You’re welcome.
By the way, thanks for the positive feedback on my last post.
What I Love About My Sisters (and mom) in Three Statements
I have two sisters and a mother and each one of us has a big personality. My husband once said that when the four of us walk into a room all of the men disappear because they know we’re going to take over anyway.
He’s absolutely correct.
We aren’t discreet or quiet in any situation, but when we get together, well… we have a way of forming a single entity: giant sarcastic lady. You’ll probably leave too. We’ll be in our own world and you won’t understand our inside jokes. Trust me, if I were to say “six” they’d crack up. They probably are right now, having read this.
Also we’re awesome. So there’s that.
Yes, I love them in the “you’re related to me so I have to” kind of way, but I also like them as people. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather be with. Unless we’re bickering, in which case I’d rather be with a lot of different people.
We do bicker and occasionally harbor a bit of irritation toward one another for a minute or two, but we never actually fight. If there’s one thing my family does well, it’s getting over stuff. I’m sure we all have some deep-seated anger with one another but we just push that down inside, so it’s okay.
Do you see how I’m skillfully placing sarcastic jokes as to lessen my emotions? Also learned from my family.
But still, we’re each our own person. As much as I’m dying to tell you about the time we were standing outside the Alamo screaming “Wooooooo!!!!” at passing cars, celebrating the Spurs’ playoff win or the time we found a random Mexican restaurant in the middle of nowhere and sang “Tiny Dancer” along with the performing guitarist or how once we were in a restaurant and we kept putting weird shawls on our heads for no reason other than we could or how we parade around kitchens singing “I Need a Little Christmas” during the holidays- I will instead attempt to say something nice about them with minimal sarcasm. You have no idea how much of a challenge this is for me.
I’m laughing out loud as I recognize we actually have cause to say “Remember the Alamo?”
She takes charge. Seriously. If you need something done or someone’s ass kicked, she’s your guy. (Lady? Woman?) Once, when she was babysitting me, I had a problem with a neighborhood boy and she marched over to his house and had a chat with his parents. She was roughly fifteen at the time.
She is patient with children. I am not patient with anything, especially children. I’ve seen her get down, eye to eye with a child and walk him through his problem. You know what I would’ve done? Said, “Knock it off!”
She is an exceptionally good mother. I know this is somewhat on par with the last statement, but having patience with a kid you’re not around all the time is much easier than it is with your own.
Being a good parent doesn’t mean you’re always patient, or even only patient some of the time, (or at all) it means you always, without fail, put your children ahead of yourself. Even when they’re wrong. Even when you probably shouldn’t. It means standing up for your children when they need help and standing by them when they refuse it. And of course my eldest sister is all of the above. (Sob. Really, I did get a little teary.)
She is the nicest person in the history of the universe. Everybody, and I really mean everybody, likes her. I’ve never met a person who felt otherwise. She’s even nice when she’s mean. (How are we related?)
She is very selfless. She’ll say she won’t, but she’d go far, far out of her way to help someone in need – and she’ll do it in lieu of caring for herself. She’ll tell you I’m wrong, but I’m not. She flew halfway across the continent to attend my baby shower and did so with only encouraging words, despite being in the middle of a two year bout infertility. (By the way, it turns out she was actually pregnant at the time. And also, she had another child thirteen months after that one. And she had another a few years after that.)
She (also) is an exceptionally good mother. I take back what I said before, she occasionally gets slightly agitated, I’ve seen her get a little snippy with her kids. It’s still kind of nice.
In her case being a good parent means caring about your child’s feelings every second of every day. It means taking time to know each of your children as individuals. It means pushing them toward positive people and making an effort to build them up at every opportunity. It means being proud of them. Even when they’re loud. Even when they’re frustrating.
She’s a deep thinker. She indulges my need to discuss useless facts and politics. Even though she’d have you believe otherwise, she’s quite intelligent and open minded. She writes and she’s well read. She mails me books after she’s read them.
She’s available. Trust me, I’ve taken advantage of this many times. She might be mad at you for whatever trouble you’ve gotten yourself into, but she’ll still help. She’ll answer her phone at two in the morning. (Although she might be up already anyway) I’m pretty sure if I committed murder she’d support consequences, but she’d probably come talk to me through a window from time to time.
She (Are you sensing a pattern?) is an exceptionally good mother. Parents aren’t perfect and that’s fine. Having a perfect parent wouldn’t be what I need, which is someone who understands how difficult it is when you’re not. I’ve never, for even one tiny second, felt unloved. Even when I was mad at her. Or when she was mad at me. Which has been warranted. Often.
It can be exhausting to try to live up to people who are so much better than you. My mom has two great daughters and… me, the unstable alcoholic. I often find myself looking at my children and feeling sad that they have me as a mother instead of the mothers their cousins have.
I’ve decided the best way to approach feeling inferior is to feel happy for them, just like I did with the Christmas Jammies clan.
I started writing yesterday with the intention of basically saying, “Sorry I was kind of mean to my kid,” and somehow wound up challenging myself to list the best parts of everyone around me. I wondered what someone would say about me – and then thought I should probably get to work before it’s too late.
And there’s this:
You should all be proud of me. Writing words like these feels very awkward and quite frankly, it feels incredibly embarrassing.