Two ladies. Talking. Chatting. Sharing. Caring. Speaking the same language (English), and yet not (generational, occupational, geographical).
“Good for you. You’re gaining a bit of experience,” Maga said. Her words skimmed over the previous 11+ years I’ve spent at my current job, 15+ in the industry, glossing over the bumps and bruises and learning curves.
“Did you ever have a formal job?” I asked. It was a clumsy attempt to convey I know being a mother and housewife is the hardest job because my question only used the words I (a non-mother/housewife) have in my professional arsenal.
“Bringing up four children was quite something to keep you busy,” she said, matter-of-factly.
It was. It is. It always will be.
She changed the subject. Neutral ground. Intentional? Unintentional? Bored? Unstimulated? Curious? “Have you gone to the index and seen how many dozens of stations there are?” She meant the TV, but all the same, she could have meant my publishing job.
Is this what it means to be family? To be speaking the same language even when you’re talking about different things and have separate agendas and varying vocabularies…?