I come from a long line of self-batterers, injurers, and generally klutzy people. My mom was pretty much always sporting bruises from coming into crash contact with tables, door frames, particularly thick air… This talent for beating oneself up was passed from her mother to her, and from my mother to me. This, I believe strongly, is because we are doers not bystanders, and being not particularly blessed with grace, carefulness, or common sense has contributed greatly to the scars and stories of my life, and the lives of the brilliantly bruised women before me.
This involuntary attraction to injury was in full swing yesterday, and I found myself wishing my mom could be here, among the living, just for a day – heck, just for a phone call – so that I may hear her laugh herself to coughing as I tell her how her intelligent daughter managed to punch herself in the face with a lawnmower.
It’s the kind of thing that made me want to take a bow, thank my mom and grandma in an Oscar-worthy speech, all the while wiggling my jaw to check for loose teeth.
I am my mother’s daughter, and damn proud of it.
I love you, mom, and miss you.