Today is my brother’s birthday.
Before you say “And we care about this because…?” I’ll tell you.
My mom posted on Facebook a photo montage of my brother and some really sappy words saying how proud she was of the man, husband–yes, the Lord of Lassitude finally married the lady he gave that ring to a couple years back–and father he’s become.
Yeah, let that sink in for a minute.
Yes, this is the Lord of Lassitude we’re talking about. The guy who has four kids by three women. The guy who can’t keep a job and blames the fact that he can’t on his possession of black skin. The guy who expects the world to hand him a living on a platter and gets mad when he has to actually–ugh–work.
This is the guy my mother is being all sappy and gushy on Facebook about.
What I’m wondering is: where was *my* gushy Facebook birthday post, Mother? Where were your probably tearful and sappy words talking about how proud you are of me and the fact that I’m holding down a job and a household and have been doing both–with no help from you or anyone else–for a year now? Where are the words about how you’re proud of me and the person I’ve become? Huh?
I’ve managed to have a (somewhat) workable household. I have a job I enjoy. I pay my bills. I do my own taxes. I’m learning to use a sewing machine and to do basic household repairs. Sometime soon, I’m going to start learning to fight with a staff (which is something I’m really looking forward to). All this is stuff I never thought I could do.
My mother doesn’t know the intricacies of my life, but damn it, she knows I can budget and that I know how to work. Why can’t she congratulate me for those things, but can congratulate my brother for the things he’s “accomplished” and the person he’s “become”?