I'd always dismissed this ridiculous notion that someway, someday, I'd sound like my mother. I was too progressive, too independent, too all-things-ultra-cool. I would not be saddled by tradition or protocol that too often infringed upon the freedom of thought and expression of a child. Stop laughing. I really believed it. In fact, I almost pulled it off. That is, until the teenage years started to settle into the equation, and into my pocketbook. It was similar to an out-of-body experience when I heard my own voice exclaim, "Because I said so." GASP! Some months later, I heard it again. "Where do you think you're going with THAT on?" It was too late. Full swing now. And then, the ultimate came, when you realize, like Norman Bates, that you ARE your mother. "So long as you're living in my house, you will live by my rules." Yikes!! I wanted to take it back, but I couldn't. I meant every single word. And my kid is actually pretty good. She's at the top of her class, bathes without prompting, doesn't smoke, doesn't drink, and hasn't auditioned for any reality tv shows, (as of this writing), so I've actually considered myself akin to Charlie Sheen, "winnnnnnning," but we can all agree - he is not. So, like any idealistic young parent, I have matured into the sanctity of realism. I have accepted that my notions of being genuinely interested in my child's opinion, and deeply committed to her expression of uniqueness, have all been traded in for curfews, structure and that sacred daily national anthem...okay, everybody now, "Oo-ooh, say can you seeeeeeeeee..?" Well then, turn the damn lights off that I'm paying for, it's the middle of the day!?
Mom, thank you. You've never been more right.
Mom, thank you. You've never been more right.
