Like any girl I have spent my years on earth alternating wanting to copy everything my mother does, with desperately attempting to “not become my mother.” Some phases lean more heavily in one direction than the other. Usually it’s the latter, because daughters always think they know more than their moms, and I’m no exception to that.
Then, in some kind of cosmic joke, I wound up being exactly like her.
I am my mother. Good one, Universe.
Asshole.
I am a perfectionist, which renders me unable to clean at all unless I have used nine vacuum attachments and refinished at least one table. This is her fault because she taught me very strict rules on what constitutes the “right way” of cleaning. It also causes the state of my house to oscillate between spotless and garbage dump. More often it’s a garbage dump than anything, although her house was always spotless. Well, save for the spare bedroom that my father and I named Warehouse B. Actually, with teasing like that, and “warehouses” of our own, we’re lucky that she never poisoned our home-cooked meals with Mop & Glo.
Part of her high standards is a very clear idea of how others should behave. You don’t dare cross my mother, as she is unforgiving and will not trust you again. I love this quality because it is what keeps her from letting people walk all over her. But I hate it. because it’s what makes her lonely and unable to make new friends, as no one is perfect. I see it in myself, and I try to use it for good, diluting it enough to protect myself but still have friends I love because they are as imperfect as I am.
My mom stayed home with me when I was young, working part-time for a while here and there when I was in school. I went to university, trained to become an accountant and worked full-time, convinced I could do it all. I saw the struggle that my mom had when I left for school and I was determined to make sure that my kids were not the centre of my universe. Then, when I wasn’t looking, I found myself staying at home with three kids because I wanted to. I’ve learned that it’s okay to have my kids as the centre of my universe; they just can’t be my whole universe.
I used to want to be a CEO. And now I am head of the laundry and lunch-packing departments. By choice. Mostly. Also because I don’t like making decisions, and apparently that’s 90% of the job as a CEO. The other 10% is ordering people to bring you coffee. I can barely implore the barista at Starbucks to make eye contact.
My mom and I have the same sense of humour, with a heavy dose of sarcasm. It gets me in to trouble sometimes, so I can only imagine the wrath of ruler-to-the-knuckles it brought down on her from the stern Catholic school nuns. I learned from her how seeing the funny in life would get me through. And never to make jokes when someone is holding a ruler.
My mom and I both have terrible poker faces. There is never a doubt how we are feeling. Well, except for my when my algebra teacher, who thought I was confused all the time even though I was getting 100%, declared to the class that I must just have a naturally dense expression. So apparently I can either look like I’m calculating cosine or you see my actual feelings. My dad used to take advantage of this by making us laugh about something in church and then he would sit there all serious, like he was embarrassed to be seen with us, while we turned purple and convulsed. The priest always aimed a little extra holy water in our direction. I learned to communicate in writing if I didn’t want someone to know how I felt. And also how to use a shredder.
If ever there were a need for an orthotic-wearing, near-sighted mother-daughter spy duo, my mom and I are fully qualified. I grew up on a court, in an elevated-ranch style of house, so the living room was a prime perch to keep tabs on the goings-on of the neighbours. She taught me where to stand behind the sheers so that you could see without being caught. She wasn’t perfect though – a visitor leaving a neighbour’s house once yelled out, “Hey Mildred, who’s your nosy neighbour?” It was worth it though years later when we got to witness Mildred in her curlers, pounding on the door of the rocking camping trailer in their driveway, and yelling for her son and his girlfriend to come out. I almost didn’t buy my current house because the view isn’t nearly as interesting. Well other than that time I spotted undercover police staking out a neighbour’s house. Everyone thought I was imagining things, but clearly they underestimate my years of specialized training.
It’s amazing how many things that my mom has taught me over the years, whether by intention or by osmosis. Even when I had my fingers in my ears…middle fingers when I really didn’t want to listen. I often wonder what characteristics I will pass down to my children. All three have nailed the nosiness trait. And we don’t even have sheers to hide behind. Their cleaning abilities are still at a garbage dump level of expertise – level spotless has to kick in soon right?
I’ve been thinking a lot about this as I read the new book Only Trollops Shave Above the Knee from editor Crystal Ponti. It’s a collection of 40 stories of “The crazy, brilliant, and unforgettable lessons we’ve learned from our mothers,” and I found it fascinating how some lessons seem to be universal among mothers, like that generation really did have the fabled mom’s handbook or blood pact…or maybe just the same issue of Ladies Home Journal, while others belong so uniquely to that mom.
A fantastic read as Mother’s Day approaches, it was fun to discover some writers who are new to me, as well as read the stories of many of my favourites, including NINE BLUNTmoms writers! What do you think the moms of Ashley Altman, Shannon Day, Carrie Groves, Alison Huff, Angila Peters, Brooke Takhar, Olga Mecking, Jill Robbins, and Lisa Webb taught them? Are they BLUNTgrandmas or do they blush at what their daughters write here? Pick up the book today and find out!
Disclosure – I received a free electronic copy of the book for review purposes.