So, mom wasn't cruel.... But the perfectionist neat freak parts didn't mesh well with my creative messiness.... Ever. Nor did it complement my monk unless and frequent trips to the hospital for stitches... Lol. She was a nervous wreck.
She put me in dance and was always very supportive. But she complained because whenever I was practicing, and she would come down to the basement to do laundry, I would stop. And I mean just stand there...lol. Waiting for her to leave. I remember it REALLY bothering me that she kept wanting me to dance for her and I wouldn't. It bothered her, too. Why? Because she paid for it. She earned the right, in her mind. She'd ask why am I embarrassed? I always said I didn't know. I finally told her when I got a little older that I didn't like he way she looked at me. But here's the kicker...she wasn't looking at me as if she was disappointed. She was usually smiling. Proud. And yet, that bothered me to be watched by her. That doesn't make any sense... Maybe that's not it. But it's something. I didn't like her looking at me. I didn't like her staring. Anyone else was ok. Not her.
I did feel I had to constantly do stuff to impress her. I'd surprise her with a clean house. Or good grades. Or how I dressed. I always had to ask if I did ok. I needed approval waaaaaayyy early... Yuk.
