It’s a frightening thought – becoming one’s parents. But it happens, and I can now understand why and how it happens. We all do it. We say, “Nope. I’m going to be different. I’m going to raise my children differently. I’m never going to do THAT.” But in the end we all do what we can to get by in life. Sometimes that means doing what we know best. Or in this case, doing what we grew up knowing.
My mother counted. ”Jennifer, I’m going to count to three, and if you haven’t put your shoes on by then, we’re not going to..” you fill in the blank. I swore I would never do this. But guess what. Every day a bit of counting goes on at our house. I fought the urge to count for a LONG time, then one day I heard Brent do it, and it worked for him. So now, I too have started counting. And I don’t even like numbers anymore (after being a Math major, that can happen).
I also swore I would be more flexible and not so set in my ways. And I like to think that I am. But man, on my bad days I really see the Mom in me come out. We have a guest at our house this weekend. Yesterday morning I got up, put on my robe, like every morning, went to the bathroom, like every morning, said “Good Morning” to August, like every morning, and went to get my cup of coffee in my favorite mug like every morning. But not this morning. Our guest had hand selected, without knowing it, my mug. Most people would probably just shrug it off. Me? I was glaring at my mug the whole morning.
There have also been a few things out-of-place, since our guest arrived. I found the sponge in the sink, rather than in the sponge holder. When I took a shower the other day, there was a wet washcloth hanging on August’s bath toys. The pillows on the couch had been rearranged. And there’s a strange perfume smell in the air. In my defense we live in a 1,000 square foot apartment. So when something is different, it’s quite noticeable. The funny thing is that the blow-up bed in the middle of our living room really isn’t bothering me – go figure. Anyhow, all these things seem like things that would bother my mom.
Surely by now I’ve convinced you that I’m some sort of anal retentive person, but I swear to God I’m not. I’m just a little bit me, and a little bit my mom from time to time. She’s the anal retentive one, not me. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself when I see someone happily sipping coffee from MY mug. But I like to believe I turned out okay, and so will August.