I don’t necessarily look like my mother. By necessarily, I mean not at all. When I was very little I even asked her, upon several occasions, to admit that I was adopted so that we could get it out in the open and move along. I was a 30 year old going on 6. Nay, she would never admit it, because she indeed carried me for almost 10 months (she claims 9 months is entirely inaccurate) and bore me as naturally natural gets (which was her decision, not mine, I totally would have taken the drugs..). So much to my amazement, the older I get, the more I am turning into her. I still look nothing like her, but the mannerisms, speech, hand movements, and hobbies are all aligning into twin-like status. Since today is Mother’s Day, I’ll share a slice of our twinning heaven.
Growing up I had a big bone to pick with my mother. I would frequently (and I mean VERY FREQUENTLY) go into the kitchen to make a snack or a drink and I would open drawer after drawer looking for spoons, a napkin, a glass, what have you, wherever it was last night, it was no longer in the rightful place. This DROVE ME NUTS. I mentioned many times over that we needed a label maker so that she could label the new places instead of me constantly opening cabinets and drawers in a fury trying to find a damn fork. It should not be a treasure hunt to make a glass of tea, was my thinking.
Enter present day: here I am, sitting contorted on my couch because there is no room for me to be on it right now. There are books and knick knacks splayed all around me. My apartment, each area, from kitchen to bathroom, looks trashed. If someone walked in on me right now they would assume I’ve been robbed. No. Alas, I am just my mother. I am supposed to be sitting down watching “It’s Complicated” and enjoying a glass of iced coffee I made for myself. What am I doing instead of relaxing on my Sunday off? I am reorganizing, very indecisively I might add, my entire apartment. How did this happen you ask? Well, I was sitting here perfectly content on my couch until I looked over to my right at the end table and thought, you know, this just doesn’t look right. So then I started moving things around on it. That spilled over to the coffee table, because IT DOESN’T LOOK RIGHT EITHER. This becomes a problem when I run to the bathroom to return a bottle of nail polish that was on the coffee table and I start moving things around on my vanity and then stop to rearrange things on the dresser in my bedroom. Read: I am TOTALLY AND COMPLETELY, my mother. It is embarrassing to say just how many times I have “re-styled” the open shelving in my kitchen. I especially do it under duress, but like today, it’s just because. Because I just felt an itch in my soul to move every single item I own to a different spot.
It is times like these that I am in awe of what we inherit from our parents. Things that are built in, remaining dormant until God needs you to tilt your head to the side and say to yourself, “wow, I made fun of her all of those years, and now I have to say, gosh, I understand mom.”
I sent my mother a text earlier letting her know that I’m paying tribute in the best way I know how, by rearranging everything in sight. And dernit, I better never have a daughter, lest no one will ever be able to find a spoon.
Love you Momma.