Woke up a few mornings ago with this idea: Just because my mom didn’t protect me the way I wanted her to doesn’t mean she didn’t protect me.  I wanted it to look a certain way –  belief in my complaint, righteous anger toward The Exes, clear cut hierarchy that I was more valuable.  I wanted my mother transformed into a superhero who would swoop in, cape flapping majestically, and save me forever.

I woke up at 42 thinking perhaps I held her to too high a standard.  Not denying what happened, but adding to it –I only know how bad it was, not how bad it might have been without her socially appropriate maneuverings, her polite excuses for why I couldn’t spend more time with The Exes.

She was not Superwoman with arms akimbo, but maybe for a woman with the psychic equivalent of a broken leg, crawling between me and the stuff that hurt me might’ve been more of an honorable act than I’ve given her credit for.

PS:  Thank you for being friends with me on facebook!  I love seeing your personal lives (that sounds so creepy, sorry)!  I hadn’t realized how lonely I’d become after the kids went back to school – most of my conscious thoughts were about ThankGoodnessTimeForMeAgain and the isolation crept up on me unexpected.