My mum isn’t my best friend.
She’s been my confidante, my therapist, my sounding board, my emotional punching bag, my chauffeur, my roommate, my stylist, my nurse, my number 1 fan… and the list goes on and on.
She’s the person who understands me best. She’s fed me, clothed me, sheltered me. And no matter how sassy I am to her (and believe me, I can be quite the little sasshole), her door is always open.
She’s read every single blog post I’ve ever written (including the really bad school-mandated ones about grammar I had to write in my first year of university), she’s supported me mentally through every single trauma I’ve experienced since I can remember (she’s calmed me down from more panic attacks than I can count), and she’s spent 2 and a half decades pushing aside her own needs to take care of mine.
She’s selfless, kind (most of the time), funny. Even though we look nothing alike (I’m a spitting image of my dad–thick thighs, big head, low centre of gravity. My mum is more… dainty) our mannerisms, linguistics, and facial expressions are becoming more similar every day.
Which is equal parts frustrating and comforting, I guess. No girl wants to be like her mum–I know I spent most of my teenage years wanting to be anybody but my mum (I didn’t even want to be me, frankly). She even admitted the other day how uncool she was, and mentioned that perhaps that uncoolness filtered down onto me.
I guess if being “cool” were even a real thing, it may be something genetic. But I abandoned being popular and the false labels that go along with it long ago–I’m an introvert, just like my mum.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
My mum isn’t my best friend–she’s my mum.
Happy Mother’s Day!