My mother has taken to trying to one-up me with stories lately. When she brings up something that she remembers and I don't, she crows in triumph. Most of the old stories I write about here are fairly personal, things I wouldn't consider pivotal moments in other people's lives necessarily, so I'm really not offended when I remember a conversation between my mother and me that she doesn't remember at all. I think she's taking it a little hard, though, that I have memories of interactions between us that she can't recall. So a couple times she has given me a little schoolyard teasing when I am at a loss. That makes my head swell a little, to be honest. One of the reasons I started telling my old stories is because I feared they might be lost forever. I was foggy-brained for a few years, while I was struggling with a crappy diet and the poor health that results from those. I felt that I still had something to offer, if I could pry my memories loose, and store them in my mundane version of a pensieve. If she's feeling like she has to compete, then that means I'm succeeding as I chronicle my life. I've been practicing this for a year and a half now. Perhaps if my mom seriously wants to play this game, she can start writing her own history down. She's got a lot of skills keeping dream journals. This can't be much different. I'm up for the challenge if she really wants to thrown down here.
I've had a bit of a breakthrough today. Whatever was holding me down the last week is clearing, and I have picked up a couple things I had on hold. I made the first pass at cleaning the garage, filling my tiny car with the broken down cardboard boxes that held all these rugs as they arrived at the house. The trash can is nearly full, but I've only just begun there. I've been told to prepare the garage for the arrival of a special needs dog who can't sleep in the house (he has no control over his back 40, either to walk or refrain from making messes, from what I've been told). I'm a little nervous over this one, but I'm hopeful that we can find a vet who is able to make him healthy again. Maybe.
I also pulled out one of my paintings that I left undone, the one that has been staring at me for months. I surrounded myself with paints and tools, and I was going to devote a good hour or two of work to it. And within fifteen seconds of putting it next to me, the image was entirely covered with a big black puddle of cat. She finally left when I picked up the computer, but it's too late to start painting now.
One of my daughters is having a life altering moment as I write. She told me she was composing a letter to one of her anthropology contacts, and stumbled on the research topic she wants to spend the next several years of her life on. (She said the music she was listening to at the time was a little eerie, making it feel like a key moment in a Tim Burton film, and that was how she knew it was a pivotal revelation.) Her topic is ambitious and terribly interesting, and it's making me a feel a little less of a big-shot writer. I suppose the daughters will always out-do the mothers. It's what pushes the world along.
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