TURNING INTO MOM
by Maggie Van Ostrand
We always remember our moms, even when they're
not around any more. That includes their little sayings, the ones that drove us crazy when we were growing up.
I find myself saying them all over again to the next generation, whether I want to or not.
“Careful you don't tear the wrapping paper,” I say to my kids as they
open their birthday gifts, “You can iron the wrinkles out and use it
again.”
It is at these moments that I realize the unthinkable has happened. I have turned into my mother. How could this be when I, who
rebelled against anything with a mouth had valiantly
fought against becoming like her?
I loved my mother but in all honesty, she could drive us kids straight
to the rubber Ramada. She didn't have to talk either -- she was equipped with an
inexhaustible supply of controlling looks for every occasion, she could make us
feel guilty quicker than the Pope. She
said she'd give up using guilt when it didn't work anymore.
Mom's sayings turned out to be hereditary despite my vigilance. "Save
that dress, it'll come back in style.” To this day, my closets are full
of outfits I haven't worn since Lincoln's inaugural ball, and shoes I
couldn't fit into again unless I reshaped my feet in a pencil sharpener.
“Finish your dinner. Think of all the starving children in Europe.”
When I tried that one on my son, he answered, “So send the meatloaf to Latvia.”
I save one earring just in case the lost one ever turns up. I transfer
phone numbers onto my BlackBerry but still save the little pieces of
paper the originals were written on. I keep the rubber bands that hold
bunches of broccoli together, and save leftover bits of wet soap to
mold into one usable bar; this will come in handy to combat soap
shortages if Latvia ever attacks us on a charge of bad meatloaf.
I even caught myself repeating Mom's most famous line, suitable for all
catastrophic occasions: “It should be the worst thing that ever happens
to you.”
That line could really take the wind out of your sails, since I always
thought that whatever was happening WAS the worst thing that ever happened to me.
I have a drawerful of brand-new white cotton gloves because every
Easter for years and years she sent me a pair even though no one wears them any more. Maybe she thought I'd need them if
I ever got invited to a cotillion at Tara, or decided to have a
retroactive coming out party. One day I'll donate the white gloves to
one of those brass bands you see marching in the Rose Parade every
January. I'd do it now except for the guilt.
I don't stop what I'm doing until it's finished, no matter how
exhausted because “If a job is once begun, never leave it till
it's done. Be the labor great or small, do it well or not at all.” Last
time I moved, I was so weary from hours of packing what seemed like ten million books, I gave dozens of them away. It seemed like a good
idea at the time except I later realized I needed many of them for reference work. Mom's been gone for two years,
yet I hear her saying “I told you so” whenever I have to buy back one
of my own books, proving that a person doesn't have to be alive to be
right. Watch it, Mom, those raised eyebrows are hitting your halo.
I inherited the title of Scotch Tape Queen because of the way she
taught us to wrap packages for mailing. “You never know, the edge of
the paper could get caught on something at the post office and tear the
whole thing open if you don't use enough tape.” Now when I send someone
a package, they need a flamethrower to open it.
I was taught to never throw anything away no matter what because “You'll
want it one day and it’ll be gone.” To this day, anything I throw out, I need a week later.
In a pitiful attempt to unclutter my office, I threw out a bunch of old photos. Now I'm riddled with guilt that everyone whose picture I tossed out will die soon.
"Save everything," she taught. The other day I discovered touching notes from people I can't
remember and an ancient diary with a tearstained entry about a
boyfriend who had apparently dumped me, vaporizing me into a state of
suicidal melancholia. Too bad I didn't include his name, since I have
no recollection of who it was. So much for the pain of parting.
There's no way I could ever forget conversations between
Mom and me through the growing up years:
I'm thirsty. – “So swallow.”
Ma, can I go in the water now? It's been an hour. – “Not one of MY hours.”
I've got a zit on my forehead and tonight's the prom. -- “Wear bangs.”
Johnny Apollo just cancelled our date. – “Thank God for small favors.”
Mom, you're driving me crazy. –“ Short trip.”
And the really big one that every mom, dead or alive uses: “Just wait till you have one of your own.”
Happy Mother's Day Mom. Thanks for the memories.
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