Nothing like a mother's love for her children. Nothing. That concept brought us the old saying, "(s)he has a face only a mother could love." It's not uncommon to see loving mothers proclaim their children's innocence in the face of overwhelming evidence of guilt in serious crimes.
Me, I hate pedestals and the whole idea that some of us are so heads and shoulders above everyone else they should enshrined upon them.
Yet my mother has placed on one. No matter how much I protest and tell her I, like every other human, have feet of clay, she just won't buy it. She just told me this morning that in her opinion I was the closest thing to perfection this side of Heaven ... to which I could only laugh and reiterate that she just doesn't know me as well as she thinks she does. I told her I think that is an unhealthy way of viewing not just me but any human.
It's sweet, to be sure. But, boy, the pressure of being human in her presence. I suggested she talk to some of the people who work for me, my bosses, my lady friend, my past lovers, for a broader perspective. But she wouldn't do that, and wouldn't believe what she heard if she did. ("There are none so blind as those who will not see," as the old proverb states.)
Mom loves me unconditionally, and that is nothing to sneeze at. She always has, always will. But somehow I can't help thinking we could better friends if she could get over the idea that I'm perfect, or nearly so.
No doubt that is hardly the worst problem I face, but it is annoying at times.