Had a heart to heart with mom this morning, the only way we in the Krittabug Family could have a heart to heart: started with a text, "You sleeping?" And a response: "Nope." Then the phone rang.
"WHY AREN'T YOU SLEEPING?" she greeted me. I looked at the clock, eighty-thirty-something. Meh. These days, 8:30 may as well be noon. A regular 5 a.m. wake-up call allows me to appreciate the 8 o'clock hour. I grabbed the blanket, rolled over, buried my head in the pillow and told her I woke up to pee.
She obviously wasn't calling just to find out why I was awake, and I knew that. I waited for it.
"OK," she began. "So why are you sad?"
She'd been on Twitter. That's the thing about outpouring every detail of your life on the Internet - moms can go on the Internet, too. She probably reads my Twitter feed more than I read my Twitter feed, and it often results in texts and phone calls that include something along the lines of, "What was that tweet about?" "Why did you say that?" "Who's that?" "I don't get Twitter."
(Newsflash: I don't get it either)
But this morning, it was the questions moms are required to ask of their offspring, particularly after a night of ominous Twitter activity - Why Are You Sad? She's said many a time that mothers are only as happy as their saddest child. So it's a battle for her between my sister and I - who's happy? Who's sad? OMGWTF can't you both be happy at the same time?
Luckily for her, as I curled up in my electric blanket this morning I wasn't sad. I was last night. I cried real tears. TEARS. And for someone who's quite the crybaby, it'd been a long, long time since I'd last had a good cry. I had an exact reason to cry, and at the same time, no reason at all.
And so, I cried. It was nice.
I gave her a brief rundown of the situation (and no, silly Internets, I won't give you the rundown, too. What do I look like? Someone who can't keep anything to herself? Oh. You're right. That's exactly what I am. But, no). She had some sound advice.
She told me not to be bitter. Not to let my tears and unfortunate situations make me bitter. She's right. I don't want to be bitter. I like that my heart beats, and is bright and pink and fluffy. I might be sarcastic. I might be naive. I might be a romantic. I might be a lot of things. But I don't want to be bitter.
And then she said something I know she didn't want to say, "Maybe build a wall. Just a little wall."
Of course she doesn't want me to build a wall. To be someone afraid to let others in. She does want to protect me, though. I'm her baby girl, as she reminds me often. But it got me thinking a lot about myself. Walls are meant to keep people out. But I think I need to keep me in. That's my problem.
I need to protect myself from myself. I need a wall to wrangle in my feelings because I have too many of them, and I let them out at will. There's really not many people to keep out, if we're being honest, but there's plenty of me to keep in. So maybe a little wall. But just a small one. And I'll build a gate. So it can still open.
So thanks, mama.