It’s official. I’m becoming my mother.
My sisters will smile sweetly and exchange glances. They know. They’ve known for years.
For one, I am embarrassingly over helpful to strangers looking for items in the grocery store. Then, last week I tucked my undershirt into my pants. And the other day in a movie a heroine made a poor decision in her love life and I muttered the words, “Choose wisely.” I just said it! I didn’t even have to think about it!
Yes, folks, the evidence seems insurmountable. Maybe the resemblance became stronger when I had kids. Maybe I just began noticing when we lived together last year, it was right in front of my face, and things did seem more … comfortable.
Maybe ninety percent of it is my maturity. That’s right, I said maturity. Thirty-four is quite old enough to entertain this particular theory without outright rejection, don’t you think? Old enough to embrace with grace the similarities and draw lessons from the faults as I hope my own daughter will.
And let’s be honest, a lot of my problems with my Mom are rooted in teenage angst. Most of that has nothing to do with her. I used to get so frustrated at my parents’ ability to sit on the couch and DO NOTHING. I’m past that. In fact, I am on board with that. Put me on the couch and give me nothing!
Yes, I’ve gotten to the point where I can find the value in an evening of fine BBC programming and a rusty nail. That’s what my Mom drinks, a rusty nail. It’s scotch and more scotch. Last night I stopped teasing her about her ridiculously outdated drink long enough to try one.
Last time I tried one I was annoyed with her and it tasted awful.
But yesterday she had just helped me fold ten loads of laundry and put my kids to bed. It was delicious.
That’s one rusty nail down my gullet and through the heart of an adolescent attitude.
Becoming my Mom has perks. There is liquor there.