When you have a new story to tell–“Hey my kid has this horrible disease”–everyone you spend time with gives you a pretty wide berth. You find yourself being the conversation monopolizer. And even though you’ve got that meta-awareness (I’m doing all the talking, I know I’m doing all the talking, even as I’m talking I’m thinking that I’m doing all the talking), you keep talking. My best friend tells me that this is OK because soon my story won’t be new, and soon this will be just the way it is, and I won’t get the tacit permission to be so egocentric that I’ve been temporarily granted by virture of my new status of being that mom (holy run on sentence!). So I talk. And this is saying something people, because I knew before this week that I do a lot of talking. I don’t have a title at work, I’m just a speech-language pathologist, but I’ve long said that I want to be called the Empress of Speech, because, come on, ’empress’ just doesn’t get a whole lot of play in 2015.
So by the powers vested in me (none), I (through no authority whatsoever) do hereby dub me (formerly known as mom, now that mom), the Empress of Speech. It’s about damn time. And I want a sash.
And I promise that someday soon you’ll all be tired of me doing all the talking, I’ll look at you and ask, “and how are YOU?” and our chats will return to a 50-50 partnership. OK 60-40. I am the Empress after all.