My mom called a couple days ago, very concerned. She read my post about vacation.
"Are you OK?" she asked, blowing out air with her words, making her voice all breathy and serious.
I am unequivocally becoming my mother as I age, a fact rendered every time I bend over to pick up a kid's toy. We bend over like jack knives, absolutely no movement in the knees, it's like a high dive into the carpet.
We share other characteristics too; cushiony middles (but Zo says we make the best pillows), small noses, a thin line for a top lip, the ability to talk to just about anyone anywhere and intense mood swings (my teen years were, um... fun.)
Mostly, I'm fine with becoming my mom. I like her. Well, I guess the days I try to burrow under my bed in an effort to ignore the world is not exactly fantastic.
So while appreciating my tongue in cheek verbiage about our vacation last week in my post, she also knows when I'm reaching a low point.
It's true, last week was a low point.
I am actually an introvert, so a full week living with 150 of my closest family members can tucker me out.
But I rested and prayed and watched a whole season of Everwood on Netflix.
And this week I'm better.
Honest, mom. Don't worry.