Pajama bottoms: the tattered blue ones stuffed in the WAY back. That’s what my relationship with my mother is. I go through long stretched seasons where I can’t get out of these comfy lovers, as they make their way into the weekly laundry pile to be used the same night they escape warm and friendly from the dryer. The time of year is not acknowledged and they fit all my moods. And then there are seasons where I do not forget about them, but they remain untouched, an unquestionable distance between us that is more than geographic. I don’t think they like me, and even if I force them on, they just don’t feel right.
My mom is supposed to visit me this weekend, which is an event, because she has only visited me one other time in the past 12 years. And I am nervous about it, trying to perfect activities or a dinner menu in my head in order to gain her approval and feel that comfortable belongingness again. Manufacture a sense of “you know me as me, the 30 year old K and not the Critter trolling around on the soccer field.” But it doesn’t work this way. Love, easy cotton candy, quickly is metabloized, but Like….and feeling as if you belong to members of your intimate posse, well, that is really a challenge sometimes.