Kate’s going on a date tonight. She looks exquisite. But she thinks she looks fat. I had a real moment. I know we all joke about how we become our mothers, but fuck, I felt like I was starring in a generational sliding doors. And not only because it’s exactly how every night out played out for me and my mom. The thing I found particularly freaky was the frustration I felt at her not hearing me. Just like I never heard my mom. I felt the very emotion I know my mom felt. It was weird. The futility. The frustration. Sometimes it really is just futile, even commenting as a mom, because they just don’t believe you. I never did. And as much as you profess (and they know it to be true) that the only one they can really rely on to be honest is you, their mom, they still don’t believe you because you are their mom and that’s why to you they are perfect. It’s quite confusing. In fact I know the only way Kate and I are ok is if I agree with her. It usually works, but clearly I can’t tonight. I daren’t. And anyway, I don’t. She looks gorgeous and she looks skinny. And that is really all that matters to her in this effed up world we inhabit. Anyway, she flew down the corridor in a huff, just like me, sorry mom, I know it never was your fault how I was feeling but I now know I knew I could take it out on you and we’d still be ok, anyway, she ran to Jem and asked her if she looked fat. Jem looked up and said nah. And that was enough for Kate. I didn’t even feel offended, I was just relieved. But I am determined to never ever ask B if I look fat in whatever I’m wearing again.

one hundred and sixty three

B and I have date night. Every night since he got back. And before he left. I am grateful for many date nights with Apple tv and Breaking Bad. For a partner who also always wants just one more. For a brilliant series that kept us up well past midnight many a night. The most extreme form of escapism. Perfect.