Compliance III

Leaning gently into the flashback series triggered by my son's in-laws and the official yaddahs of tomorrow's Permanency Hearing, I find myself wondering if cigarettes were my schooling in Passive Aggression 101. My mother's anti-smoking lectures began during the months that our lives in central Illinois were imploding. It was the late 60's and I was somewhere in the passage between Junior High and High School.

"Mommy, I was raped last night." 

"It's the cigarettes that are making you feel bad."

"Mommy, I don't wanna go with that stinky old man."

"He is smoke-free and rich, Dear."

I mostly agreed with my mother on the smells of stale cigarettes and hated being forced into a car with a smoking driver. By the time the coast to coast sojourn petered out in the early 70's, I was emphatically blowing literal smoke over my mother's metaphorical smoke. I am to offend, Ma'am. The huffier, the better.

So I believe I remember. I am far from ready to trust the *memory* but relieved that ^it^ seems to be reducing to *just* another ugly memory. Herstory books is full of 'em.

The big for sure is that the contentment across the sleeping house this morning is ? ? ? Will gratitude up the odds of that light at the end of the tunnel being a fast moving train? ? ? Dunno. Keeping my gratitude humble. It's all the Gnarly Old Dickhead's doing.

I feel quasi-confident leaving the mood icon at okay. Tomorrow is coming, but this morning is precious.