Sometimes I feel like a set of Russian nesting dolls where different versions of myself are stacked inside one another.
The largest doll is the version of me my husband sees. It’s the most complete “me”—the loving, caring, stubborn, irrational, for-better-for-worse me. I don’t pretend with him. He sees it all!
The next doll represents the me my daughter sees; the one she once loved more than anyone else, then hated (ah, teenagers!) and then loved again. It is not without precedents that we occasionally struggle to understand each other, but that’s OK. We are the best of friends!
Then there’s the me my grandchildren see: the middle doll. It’s the best version of me because I have no flaws with them—not yet! Their eyes light up whenever they see me and that’s when I’m the happiest “me”.
The next to the last doll is the version of me my friends and acquaintances see. It’s the one you must peel away several layers to find; the one trying to put her best foot forward but is cautious not to venture too far.
Who is the real “me”? The one I am when no one else is looking? I’m the smallest nesting doll! The one tucked deep inside all the others; the one that only comes out when I deliberately take myself apart and search for “me”.
PS – The nesting dolls (also known as Matryoshka or Babushka dolls) were purchased on a trip to St. Petersburg, Russia.
This is my response to the “Ragtag Daily Prompt”: Precedent