C’mon, now. Mother’s Day is Sunday. You knew I’d write about my mom this week.
When I was a child, I dreaded turning into my mother. She was the one who doled out punishment when I swiped the last Twinkie in the breadbox or painted my sister’s Barbies with nail polish. She did not tolerate temper tantrums or sass. When she threatened to march me right out of the store if I didn’t start behaving, by golly, she meant it—and did it. (Looking back, I may not have been the best-behaved child.) When I was still in the single digits, I thought my mother was kind of mean. Why didn’t she understand that Barbie looked prettier with a bright red nail-polish Batman mask? Was it my fault that I’d flinched when my sister had started yelling, thus causing my hand to slip, trailing a crimson glob of polish and rendering Totally Hair Barbie into Texas Chainsaw Massacre Barbie?
As a teenager, I knew there was no way I’d ever turn into my mother. She was so uncool, with her purse as big as a suitcase and her ridiculously sensible sneakers. She wouldn’t even let my sister or me buy Dr. Scholl’s, which was so unfair because clogs were the hottest shoe of the season. When we wanted her to buy us Duran Duran albums and Pink Floyd cassettes, she’d say completely ludicrous things like “If you want it, you’d better start saving up for it.” Then, to add insult to injury, she’d make us do just that, spending our hard-earned babysitting money on The Dark Side of the Moon instead of our parents just giving it to us. And when we did get gifts at holidays or birthdays, we couldn’t even plunk Seven and the Ragged Tiger on the turntable until the thank-you card was written.
She was unreasonable. A taskmaster. And seriously, her Velcro sneakers were embarrassing.
As a young adult, I fought my natural instincts: I refused to admit I was turning into my mother. I lived on an island, an ocean between Mom and me, and yet she’d somehow taken up residence in my head. I had the opportunity to buy a shiny new pair of Dr. Scholl’s clogs at the Island Clothier and heard my mother, loud and clear: Look at those things. They look heavy and uncomfortable. And I don’t see any sort of arch support. Pssh! They’re not even on clearance!
I didn’t buy the clogs. But—just to spite her, I’m sure—I didn’t buy the Velcro sneakers, either. I would be my own person. A rebel. I’d get sneakers with laces … and proper arch support.
As I approach middle age, I’ve embraced the inevitable. I’ve completely turned into my mother.
It isn’t just when I look in the mirror (though she’s right there: I may have my father’s blond curls, but it is Mom’s nose, cheeks, chin, and smile looking back at me). Mom’s in everything I do, from the moment my alarm goes off. I rarely crack the speed limit on my morning commute, and always wear my seatbelt, and never, ever, use a bad word when a car cuts me off, because my mother’s voice is riding shotgun, advising: What if that driver hears you and pulls out a gun? (I had a conversation with her this week in which she was talking about her car door handle breaking, to which she added, “Thank goodness I wasn’t submerged in water!” Perhaps you find this nuts. But it was exactly what I was thinking.)
I drink way too much coffee every day, probably as much as Mom, and when I’m reaching for a third cup, I picture Mom shrugging unapologetically and saying There are worse vices to have. I’ll browse through an Oriental Trading catalogue at lunch and shake my head, Mom’s words coming out of my mouth: “Why spend eight dollars on a paper lamp? I have pipe cleaners and tissue paper. I can make that.” This instinct, by the way, is always followed by Mom’s other habit: sure, I can make a paper lantern. But I’ll never get around to it. I have a box in my spare room filled with unused craft supplies, from half-melted glue sticks to unpainted wood frames. If you were to walk into my mother’s house at any given moment, she’d have an identical box in her spare room. I might as well label mine “You’ve turned into Mom.”
Our conversations have changed a bit over the years. Where it used to be Mom offering advice or asking if my new shoes have proper arch support, now we’ll talk about our days and pepper the conversations with things like, “She offered you pie? We don’t like pie!” Our tastes, you see, are so similar, what was once a family joke has now turned into part of our normal speech. We don’t like broccoli, or mushrooms, or olives, or fresh Peeps (we prefer them stale). We rarely eat ice cream unless it’s the good stuff, and prefer to eat frosting but not cake. (Auntie Joanne, Mom’s sister, came up with a brilliant solution to this, a stroke of genius for which I am forever grateful. She’s right: Why not eat frosting right out of the can?) We've shown up at family visits wearing identical sandals, jackets, glasses frames, and watchbands, all bought on solo shopping trips, completely unaware that the other was buying the exact same Mickey Mouse watch. I’ve given up fighting it. Now I appreciate that when Mom tries out a new pair of glasses, I know instantly how they’ll look on me.
Here’s the thing: my mother is a beautiful, smart, sensible woman. She’s passionate about the things she believes in, be it sensible footwear or not paying eight dollars for a cheap paper lamp. I should be so lucky to turn into my mom.
I caught myself at Famous Footwear just last week, looking at a pair of pink suede Altair sneakers. They were cute as heck, with a thick sole that wouldn’t wear through too quickly, and solid arch support. I was sorely tempted to shell out the forty bucks and take them home. But … they had Velcro fasteners instead of laces. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I may be my mother, but there’s still a bit of Stacey in there, too.
If they'd been on clearance, though, I totally would’ve bought them.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom!
When I was a child, I dreaded turning into my mother. She was the one who doled out punishment when I swiped the last Twinkie in the breadbox or painted my sister’s Barbies with nail polish. She did not tolerate temper tantrums or sass. When she threatened to march me right out of the store if I didn’t start behaving, by golly, she meant it—and did it. (Looking back, I may not have been the best-behaved child.) When I was still in the single digits, I thought my mother was kind of mean. Why didn’t she understand that Barbie looked prettier with a bright red nail-polish Batman mask? Was it my fault that I’d flinched when my sister had started yelling, thus causing my hand to slip, trailing a crimson glob of polish and rendering Totally Hair Barbie into Texas Chainsaw Massacre Barbie?
As a teenager, I knew there was no way I’d ever turn into my mother. She was so uncool, with her purse as big as a suitcase and her ridiculously sensible sneakers. She wouldn’t even let my sister or me buy Dr. Scholl’s, which was so unfair because clogs were the hottest shoe of the season. When we wanted her to buy us Duran Duran albums and Pink Floyd cassettes, she’d say completely ludicrous things like “If you want it, you’d better start saving up for it.” Then, to add insult to injury, she’d make us do just that, spending our hard-earned babysitting money on The Dark Side of the Moon instead of our parents just giving it to us. And when we did get gifts at holidays or birthdays, we couldn’t even plunk Seven and the Ragged Tiger on the turntable until the thank-you card was written.
She was unreasonable. A taskmaster. And seriously, her Velcro sneakers were embarrassing.
As a young adult, I fought my natural instincts: I refused to admit I was turning into my mother. I lived on an island, an ocean between Mom and me, and yet she’d somehow taken up residence in my head. I had the opportunity to buy a shiny new pair of Dr. Scholl’s clogs at the Island Clothier and heard my mother, loud and clear: Look at those things. They look heavy and uncomfortable. And I don’t see any sort of arch support. Pssh! They’re not even on clearance!
I didn’t buy the clogs. But—just to spite her, I’m sure—I didn’t buy the Velcro sneakers, either. I would be my own person. A rebel. I’d get sneakers with laces … and proper arch support.
As I approach middle age, I’ve embraced the inevitable. I’ve completely turned into my mother.
It isn’t just when I look in the mirror (though she’s right there: I may have my father’s blond curls, but it is Mom’s nose, cheeks, chin, and smile looking back at me). Mom’s in everything I do, from the moment my alarm goes off. I rarely crack the speed limit on my morning commute, and always wear my seatbelt, and never, ever, use a bad word when a car cuts me off, because my mother’s voice is riding shotgun, advising: What if that driver hears you and pulls out a gun? (I had a conversation with her this week in which she was talking about her car door handle breaking, to which she added, “Thank goodness I wasn’t submerged in water!” Perhaps you find this nuts. But it was exactly what I was thinking.)
I drink way too much coffee every day, probably as much as Mom, and when I’m reaching for a third cup, I picture Mom shrugging unapologetically and saying There are worse vices to have. I’ll browse through an Oriental Trading catalogue at lunch and shake my head, Mom’s words coming out of my mouth: “Why spend eight dollars on a paper lamp? I have pipe cleaners and tissue paper. I can make that.” This instinct, by the way, is always followed by Mom’s other habit: sure, I can make a paper lantern. But I’ll never get around to it. I have a box in my spare room filled with unused craft supplies, from half-melted glue sticks to unpainted wood frames. If you were to walk into my mother’s house at any given moment, she’d have an identical box in her spare room. I might as well label mine “You’ve turned into Mom.”
Our conversations have changed a bit over the years. Where it used to be Mom offering advice or asking if my new shoes have proper arch support, now we’ll talk about our days and pepper the conversations with things like, “She offered you pie? We don’t like pie!” Our tastes, you see, are so similar, what was once a family joke has now turned into part of our normal speech. We don’t like broccoli, or mushrooms, or olives, or fresh Peeps (we prefer them stale). We rarely eat ice cream unless it’s the good stuff, and prefer to eat frosting but not cake. (Auntie Joanne, Mom’s sister, came up with a brilliant solution to this, a stroke of genius for which I am forever grateful. She’s right: Why not eat frosting right out of the can?) We've shown up at family visits wearing identical sandals, jackets, glasses frames, and watchbands, all bought on solo shopping trips, completely unaware that the other was buying the exact same Mickey Mouse watch. I’ve given up fighting it. Now I appreciate that when Mom tries out a new pair of glasses, I know instantly how they’ll look on me.
Here’s the thing: my mother is a beautiful, smart, sensible woman. She’s passionate about the things she believes in, be it sensible footwear or not paying eight dollars for a cheap paper lamp. I should be so lucky to turn into my mom.
I caught myself at Famous Footwear just last week, looking at a pair of pink suede Altair sneakers. They were cute as heck, with a thick sole that wouldn’t wear through too quickly, and solid arch support. I was sorely tempted to shell out the forty bucks and take them home. But … they had Velcro fasteners instead of laces. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I may be my mother, but there’s still a bit of Stacey in there, too.
If they'd been on clearance, though, I totally would’ve bought them.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom!
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