I need to make that perfectly clear from the get-go. I don’t resent the scrappy little woman who single-handedly raised two girls while working a very demanding job in the federal government. I have nothing but admiration for her level of self-sacrifice as she dedicated many of her early retirement years to caring for elderly and ailing relatives. I respect her commitment to homeless ministries as she volunteers large amounts of her precious time. No, indeed. I do not resent those amazing qualities at all. What I resent is becoming cliche. I cherish the qualities my mother has. But I don’t want to be MY MOTHER!
None of us do. Think I’m wrong? For the guys out there, I double-dog dare you to tell that special lady in your life that she is “just like her mother.” After you put some ice on that shiner, give me a call and tell me if I’m right. The sad part is, though, like every other woman in the world, I’m already skipping down that path. And there’s nothing I can do about it.
What is it about knowing that we will turn into our moms that makes us so crazy? The inevitability of it? The realization that we got screwed by both nature AND nurture and have little control over the situation? Or is it that we finally have to let go of that latent teenage notion that our parents know nothing and we are infinitely wiser than they? Um, yeah. I think that’s it. I finally have to admit that maybe she DID know what she was talking about, at least some of the time.
This blog is for all those times I ever said “When I am an adult/parent/outfielder on the church softball team, I will NEVER ….” and “I will NEVER make my kids…” or “I would NEVER do THAT!” Never say never, my friend or you may find yourself eating those rash words. And they are a choking hazard.