Several weeks ago, my kids and I were enjoying P.D. Eastman’s Are You My Mother for about the billionth time. You know the one. “’Are you my mother?” said the bird. ‘No, I am not your mother, I am a dog’ said the dog.” Love that book. This time however, as I read the baby bird in the squeaky little voice that my kids now associate with the character, I came to a startling realization. No, little bird, I am not your mother. But I have, somehow, become mine.
Besides my tendency to create goofy little voices for a wide variety of storybook characters, a trait which my mother and I apparently now share, we have become virtually indistinguishable in several ways.
- It’s up to you (but not really). The power to choose is huge to a kid. You are the master of your own destiny. No one tells ME what to do. As a young girl, I distinctly remember being granted this privilege…kind of. MOM: “How many pancakes do you want?” YOUNG ME: Really, it’s my choice?! I could pick any number from 1-100! It’s all up to me! “I’ll take four!” MOM: “We’ll start with two.”See how she did that? Well, like it or not, this has become a pretty regular part of our day. “What would you like for a snack? A cookie? Here’s an apple.” “What would you like to do now? Play trucks? Hmmm, sounds like fun. Let’s read a book.”
- Because I said so. I was never going to say this. Ever. This is not a reason. I was convinced that I would, unlike my mom, be able to rationalize with my children. I was so very wrong. Sometimes, by the seventh “why”, you just can’t take it anymore. This is a GREAT reason. Short, sweet, and requiring no further explanation.
- What’s your name again? Perhaps this particular tendency was not inherited. Perhaps, when you have multiple children, confusion is a given. There are times that I am surprised my children even know their birth names. Not only are they frequently addressed as one another, but they have been called everything from “Bubba” to “Taters” to “CrayonsandMarkers”. It is unfortunate that the rate of occurrence increases exponentially in anger. Oftentimes, when they sense I am upset, they all run and hide, as it is hard to determine which “Johnny” is the target of my wrath.
- I can make that for you, and it’ll be way cheaper when I do. My mom is one of the craftiest people I know. She can take a cheap anything and make it look like a million bucks. So when, as a child, we desperately had to have that perfect Halloween costume, did she go to the store and purchase it ready made? Nope. She rolled up her sleeves and made it. Cardboard box robot, anyone? So when my son had to have a new garbage truck or he would be sad forever and ever, I gathered my supplies and got to work. Its not perfect, but he loves it. And it was free.
- The definition of “clean” is open to interpretation. I am not a slob. Neither was my mother. I clean the bathroom on a regular basis. I make the beds every morning. I sweep the large, visible crumbs off of our floors. But those little crumbs, the ones that can only be seen upon close inspection? Yeah, we’ve got those. And the dust that can only be spotted when the sun hits the surface at a specific angle? Check out my living room at 3:25 PM and see for yourself.
Thankfully, the bright pink shorts and really, really wide brimmed ball caps haven’t found their way into my wardrobe. But the things I did inherit? For years I insisted that I would never, ever be anything like my mother. Clearly, I was wrong. And, at least in this instance, I’m not at all ashamed to admit it.
