Ia uite, a trecut luna si n-am mai scris aici…
Azi a fost o zi scurta, trista si rece, pana spre 6. M-am trezit dintr-un vis ciudat, tocmai cand plangeam zdravan de gatul mamei. Pentru ca imi facuse 2 surori gemene (culmea e ca am avut vis in vis cum ca facuse o fetita si-i povesteam si ea a recunoscut ca a nascut 2 fete)… Everything felt weird… starting from the cry embrace, which kinda never happened in reality, i avoided her seeing me crying, as she was feeling guilty and she denied my crying. Then the girls… i always wanted a sister (i have 3 brothers, i could’ve deserved a gal!), but this was more like… me and my little girl.
Anyway, i woke up and she was there beside me, smiling with her sparkling eyes 🙂 she can recognize me now… I find it so hard to write about her, or even to put my thoughts into some order.Having babies makes one reconsider one’s relationship with the parents. It brings back a lot of memories, complexes, situations.
The guilt, the struggle to be “the best” and the comparisons are still there. And I perpetrate them towards my daughter. I compare her to other babies, to her cousin, which… is stupid. Ok, it’s fun and stupid, since my baby is so cute and talkative, even if she can’t yet roll. See? I cannot pinpoint one thing of which I can say a good thing without mentioning a rather negative aspect.
I was raised aiming to perfection. I had the highest expectations from me. My parents, relatives, neighbours, teachers, also had great expectations from me. They kept comparing me to my cousins, their workmates’ kids, other people’s kids. Especially in some things. Who’s got the highest grade at school? Who’s that girl with the nice hair, why can’t you comb it like that?
Father was primarily interested in my Math/Physics/Info grades. While i was pretty good in Math/Physics/Info and i liked them when i had nice teachers, they were not quite as interesting as Literature, foreign languages, Biology and later History. He never understood it and reproaches me to this day that i don’t do programming.
Mother, on the other hand, was interested in appearance. Wear this, comb like this, walk like this, why aren’t you acting like a lady (she was always her own tailor, couffeur and make-up artist and she’s very elegant even today)? She never understood that I resented being a girl in the first place. That i didn’t like to wear things which made me look too missy or too mature. That her style on me was not very appropriate in my teens, so why wouldn’t let ME have my OWN style? Furthermore, she couldn’t roll back to her teenage complexes, which we shared: being fat (rather broad shouldered and big boobed, but kids at 15 just call that “fat”), being small (1,63m doesn’t look good on big bones), having to take shit being the girl (girls do the dishes! girls should be more quiet, not jump and play boy games!). Having acne – BIG problem (“i had acne, your father did, it’ll pass by itself!” and it didn’t…).
She was right sometimes, combing hair was not a pleasant thing, i’d have rather read something in that time. And shoes that i liked were a bit avantgarde for my age/school (so fucking what? my classmates mocked me anyway). I definitely couldn’t compare to the “flowers” in my classroom, which had more money, more time and attention from parents to dress up.
Oh, i also have to mention that, if i did dress up sometimes (my way or mother’s way), that would attract negative attention from father, which saw everything unrelated to school as superficial and possibly leading to a whore life (“young people are unconventional and that will ruin them”, “what’s the use of the mirror?”, he said). Yeah, wasn’t very comfy between these 2 very different approaches of physical aspect. As a result, i spent most teen years dressed in black and wearing vests (good to hide boobs).
None of my parents accepted making mistakes. In time, I could accept easier my father’s obtuze attitude, than my mother’s refusal to comprehend my problems. She used to spend a lot of time with us and she took me as her confident (note to self: NEVER take your child as a confident, that’s what friends are for!!). I would listen and understand her problems, so why wouldn’t she do the same? Later on, when i tried to talk about it, she felt so guilty that i always had to stop.
Yet these are eating me up inside. Today i saw a cute dressed girl in the park. I have money, why don’t i dress with style? My clothes are either for necessity or comfort, rarely for impression. I only started showing cleavage 2 years ago. I like shoes, not, i love’em. I don’t wear high heels as i don’t feel that comfortable. Whenever i choose on a new pair of shoes, i pick them solid and good for work/long walks, but where’s the fun? Why do i keep compromising? Because I don’t have a style… my style would be rather unconventional and tricky, and surprise people around (not always in the good sense).
Ohhh… And why not spend some more money and buy something really nice?
Here’s something my parents didn’t teach. That quality needs money. Some shoes and clothes and lotions are an investment. Mother kept complaining i don’t comb or wear whatever, but she failed to see i pay more attention to my skin than she ever did. I’d rather buy a good face cream or a stretching lotion, than some dress.
From what i wrote here, it seems i have not gone too far from my parents, that i’m still highly attached and their opinion still matters. And it’s true. But even true-er, now I am a mother myself, and i want my daughter to be proud of me. I want her to look to her baby pics and say “ooh, mum, you were so cute!” or whatever. And, of course, i want to look good for my husband 🙂 that being said, i’ll go to sleep.
After all, this day has proven to be quite long… and sad, but successful.