“Where are my good scissors?!” made it official: I have turned into my mother. There was a time when I was clueless as to why my perfectly sane, maternal figure would be interrogating everyone in the house with that same question. In my mom’s eyes, her special shears—which we used for all kinds of unmentionables—were meant strictly for sewing. Now, decades later, I am searching for my herb cutters that I soon discovered were utilized to cut a “sticky gunky thingy” out of Corgi fur.
Good to know
I still have not completely morphed into my mom … yet. Although I am hanging on by a thread in the technology department. At least I use my laptop for more than just playing spider solitaire. My trickle down DNA comes from a woman whose cell phone voice message begins with the pre- recorded, “You have reached the voice mailbox of Sue,” followed by my mom’s voice saying, “OK, Mary Helen, now what do I push?” She was one of the first to purchase a rectangular disposable Kodak camera to capture our family’s important events. When she picked up the developed film, she quickly realized that she had been holding the camera the wrong way. Needless to say, we did not use one of the 36 “eyeball” shots as one of our Christmas cards. Maybe I am mutating into my mama only in new forms of technology. I am, after all, “text challenged.” One time I sent a text to a co-worker telling him I would send him the “lust,” meaning list, and once misspelled “here” as “het.” My auto spell check changed the word entirely causing me to text my daughter “I am still heterosexual” to which she replied, “Good to know.”
Well, that’s not good
Another sign that the “momisms” are sinking in: I recently found myself counting the mile markers and reading every billboard (yes, out loud) on the way home from a recent trip. Even worse, I have incorporated the standard “Well that’s not good,” after anything my children throw at me, from “I have a zit on prom night!” to “the guinea pig is stuck in the Barbie car.” I also have her lack of having no idea of how to wrap up a threat—“If you don’t get your act together … I’ll do something … or is it something to you? Either way … I mean it!”
My Mom and I do have our differences, especially in the kitchen. I could be whipping up a lemon, caper, white wine chicken piccata, and my mother will come along with an “I think that could use a little BBQ sauce.” I do however cherish the similarities that prove I am her daughter. “Turning into my mother” will mean that I will be the “fun” grandmother that lets kids find worms in muddy gardens, and like my mom, lose my bra skinny dipping and go “fishing” for it SUCCESSFULLY with a fishing pole and my lucky gold hook. I will share books, a love of nature, my Tarzan yell before jumping into a frigid lake, and a good joke with the grandkids. I will tell the people in my life that if it weren’t OK to make mistakes they wouldn’t have erasers on pencils and that the “five second rule” can be extended to ten if anything homemade or containing chocolate hits the floor. I will cheer for sports that I don’t understand (lacrosse) get lines on my behind from sitting on aluminum bleachers during tennis season and yell “PULL! PULL! PULL!” at competitive swim meets with full knowledge the child in the water won’t hear me, and scream “Good eye!” at a granddaughter way out in left field. I will stress the importance of watching a good sunset, being a non-smoker, wearing sunscreen, forgiving and being of service to others. Most importantly, after I belt out a song that I THINK I know the words to, I will look at my friends and family and know with every ounce of my being that I have given them the feeling of being loved beyond measure. Maybe this “morphing into my mother” thing is not so bad after all—but I still want to know who took my good scissors.