It seems funny, doesn't it? How we spend our teenage years scoffing at the idea that there's no possible way we'd ever turn into our parents. We get angry at their teachings and accuse them of being mean or cranky, and some of us go so far as to tell them we hate them. I must confess, I used to do the same thing. When I was grounded for misbehaviour, I'd swear I'd never do that with my kids. I'd never enforce such a strict bedtime, I'd never give such an early curfew, and I certainly wouldn't make them eat these disgusting green round things she called Brussels Sprouts.
Yet somewhere along the way, I discovered that I was more like my mom than I thought. When I was a teenager, my mom and I were open. She gave me the sex talk like it was a breeze—mind you, she was mid-way giving me a haircut when she brought it up. As if I could walk away from it at that point! She told me I could tell her anything, she would be cool about it and all she cared was that I was being safe. Okay, awesome. That is, until I came home from my boyfriend's place with a hickey on my neck, and her being cool about it was screaming at me about how hickeys can cause Cancer and obviously involve heavy petting and foreplay. It took me a long time to be able to open up to her again. When I got married at 22, we got closer on the subject, and to this day we make the worst jokes ever. My friends watch in awe over the things my mom and I talk about, which makes it even funnier. And that is the first red flag. My mom and I share a sick, twisty sense of humor.
The next was less obvious at first. My mom had this way about her that no matter where she was, she'd strike up a conversation with a complete stranger. I remember watching her go, and later asking if she knew that person. She'd say nope, and go about her day. It happened as I was grocery shopping, and waiting in line at the checkout, when I starting rambling on to the woman behind me about the awesome sale on chicken. We laughed like we were old friends, and when I received my change, wished her a nice day before walking to my car. That's when it hit me and I came to a dead stop at my car. I remember looking back and giggling to myself about it.
When I had my daughter, I spent the first year apologizing profusely to my mom every chance I got. I'd call her up and apologize for peeing on her, and a week later, apologize for taking my own diaper off and smearing the contents all over my crib. She'd laugh at me and say it's okay.
A few years later, I was grocery shopping and spotted new Christmas décor being put out on display. I felt exhilarated! I rushed over, picked out a bunch of stuff and ran to the cash with it. When she told me the total, it wasn't the cost that floored me. It was the fact that once again, I was showing one of my mother's traits. There I was, happily buying Christmas decorations… in the middle of July. Just. Like. My. Mom.
Finally, the most recent and probably most obvious sign was just a few weeks ago. I showed up for Sunday supper, having driven from my home 2 hours away, and walked in for a surprise. My mom and I were wearing the exact same outfit. The same green dress shirt, the same grey dress pants. All I could come out with was: "Well, you're going to have to change! I can't!" And we laughed, took a selfie together, posted on Facebook and captioned it the only way I could:
"I've finally become my mother!"
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