Like Mother, Like Daughter
(Via text, 2 days prior to our family reunion in Tennessee)
Me: So…Ingrid woke up with a runny nose and Gus is coughing. We’d be super disappointed not to come but I’d hate to infect anyone. What do you think?
Mom: Just come. Drug ‘em good.
Me: Can I quote you on that, Grandma?
There’s nothing like a little Mom-time to remind me just how alike we are. Below are 10 tell-tale signs I’m becoming my mother:
1. I abide by our own version of the Urban Dictionary:
Lens juice- contact lens solution
Pit juice - deoderant
O.J. - orange juice
Dog bologna - bologna not fit for humans
2. I break spaghetti noodles in half for cooking then throw one against a wall to gauge doneness
3. I enjoy Hallmark murder mysteries solved by bakers, contractors, librarians and antique store owners
4. I have a strong affinity for cooking in the microwave, in particular, bacon and hot dogs. Hot dogs should be cooked until resembling a blown tire. You know how I feel about bacon
5. I have a propensity for clumsiness. Case-in-point: Once, helping Mom unload groceries in the rain, I ran for her back door in a pair of flats while carrying a 24-pack of bottled water. The moment I hit the slick wooden deck, I slid with the effortless grace of a seasoned ball player in the final seconds of the playoffs. I’m proud to say I never let go of the water
6. I store discarded meat bones in the freezer until trash day
7. I shred paperwork for fear of identity theft then unplug the shredder for fear of an electrical fire (note: Mom also unplugs the toaster, coffee maker, printer and phone chargers. The microwave, however, is never unplugged)
8. I maintain a stash of mini-sized yellow legal pads - in the kitchen, on my nightstand, in the glove compartment of the car
9. I’m unable to consume food once a hair has been found in it, even if my own
10. I bloat
In the future I will: keep a crossword puzzle book and the Sunday funnies on a table next to the toilet, only watch TV with the volume set to an even number, laugh a lot more - to the point of having to literally run to the bathroom (already I’ve given up jumping on trampolines), mix 1/3 c. Hershey chocolate syrup into my coffee, wear a giant bluetooth earpiece in public.
“Am I becoming my mom?” I ask my husband, Sean, in the same way I inquire, “Am I PMS’ing?” After 15 years of marriage he understands these are rhetorical questions best answered by being repeated back. “Do you think you’re PMS’ing?” So, yes, I am becoming my mom and this pleases me. She’s unforgettable.
PS. Mom and I shared a good laugh last night over my concerns for the kids’ colds. Who’d have guessed we’d spend our first day of the reunion quarantined while being treated for head lice?