“This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased.”

“This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased.” My, how we all long to hear words like that.  


I've discovered in recent months just how much I desire crave my parents' approval.  I want them to be proud of how hard I work, not only at the job I get paid for, but also at the one I don't, the one that rewards me in hugs and kisses and slobbers and giggles.


Unfortunately, most days, I don't feel that.


I'm not saying that I feel as though my parents aren't proud of me, I'm just saying that, if they are, perhaps they're not showing it in ways I'd expect.


The hardest person for me to communicate this with is ... well, to be honest, both my mother AND my father.  But for two totally different reasons.  With my dad, I know that he's proud of me, even if he doesn't outright say it.  He's not a touchy-feely kind of dad.  He's an empirical man.  He likes numbers and theories and all those other science-y, non-emotional kinds of things.  


My mom.  Oh boy, my mom.  If I'm truly being honest with you, and with myself for that matter, I don't even think my mom's proud of me.  But, see, now that sounds mean.  A better way to put it would be more along the lines of: I don't think my mom's ever thought to be proud of me.  But then, that's how it's always been with us.  Lately, though, things have gotten a bit ... strained.


To know the [latest] issue between my mother and I, I have to backpedal a little bit.  Mike, Katie & I live in what used to be my grandfather's house, the house my father grew up in, the house my father now owns, and rents to us.  This house happens to be approximately 4 blocks away from my mom.  When we moved in here (I was 5-6 months pregnant at the time), my mom went on and on and on about how much she'd get to see the baby, how often she'd be over, how much she'd help, BUT she didn't want to overextend her welcome.  Sounds wonderful!


Sigh. It didn't happen that way.  We barely ever got phone calls or texts or anything.  We didn't get visits, except for a couple when we first came home from the hospital.  We were busy with a new baby (our first, therefore, our most nerve-wracking) and therefore, didn't have much time to even attempt to communicate with the outside world.


Enter, September.  I'm officially back to school, full time, while also working, part time.  Plus the baby, maintaining a household, running errands, homework, class work, driving here and there and everywhere.  By 11pm, I'm lucky if I'm sitting up straight, or that I've managed to remove my makeup before promptly laying into my pillow with a big slobbery wet one!


But then Christmas comes.  And Katie is a bit shy to go into the wide-open arms of her Ama.  Suddenly, the onslaught of blame begins.  "You know, she's been alive almost 12 months and I've seen her less than 10 times!"  "Oh Katie, I know, you don't know who I am.  I'm a complete stranger!"  "We knew Katie was going to be babysat by her other Grandma, but we didn't know we'd never see her!"


She's lucky I didn't scream.  She's lucky I didn't rip my (by that time, beaming and giggling) daughter from her arms.  She's lucky I didn't burst into tears!  Well, maybe I'm lucky for that last one.


I really wish my mother understood how busy we are.  How little time I actually get to spend with my daughter.  How little bonding I get to do with her and how much her YaYa and Auntie JoJo get to.  She knows this.  But she doesn't understand.


Maybe that's because she never really made an attempt to bond with me.


But that's a post for another time.


I'm hoping to be back bright and early with another list of things I'm thankful for, but Mike and I are both off in the morning, so it may be put off until the afternoon.


I've gotten all caught up with my readings, in case you're wondering.  Perhaps it helps a bit that I've read the creation and Noah stories quite a few times.  We'll see how easy it is to read 9 chapters when I get to Leviticus and Deuteronomy. :/