Today is Good Friday. It doesn't feel much like a holiday, and I'm sitting at work. It feels strange still to work on a religious holiday, but here I am. I have no plans for Easter this year. Unlike most feast days, I've not been notified that I'm hosting some kind of dinner, which is why no one has received any invitations. I'm not really planning on driving to West Tennessee to see my mother or my mother-in-law, so I guess we'll sit at home and eat TV dinners. I might buy a small ham. I just don't know yet. Heather's just about too old for Easter baskets, and I can't even remember if I got her one last year. Another in a long line of parental shortcomings and failures. Mothers are supposed to be superhuman creatures, and I just keep falling short.
I've never been good with expressing emotions. I always felt that emotions were a sign of weakness - part of being raised as my father's "son", I suppose. Lately I'm having a hard time bottling up those things that bubble up when people start flinging arrows and stones. Some I deserve. Others, less so. Innocent comments get taken out of context and used to further some cause. I make a genuine post about an overwhelming feeling I have, and someone turns it into an accusation, based on some sort of internet statistic that proves I've posted in response to something else. Frankly, I don't see the connection. I get angry more often than I used to, but I often feel like I've been kicked in the gut too. I'm not accustomed to that one. It usually brings tears. Intended kindnesses are perceived as attempts to control. And this post will be labeled as an attempt to send someone on a guilt trip - but hey - if the shoe fits, baby, wear it out.
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Love you Mom