Struggling through with joy... |
kind of.
Struggling through with joy... |
Like many people, I mark the transition from work to home by changing clothes. I take off my work clothes and pull on my clearance rack pink tye dye sweatpants, ready to settle in for the evening. They are a physical reminder that my work day is done and I can let loose a little. They say, “She’s not going anywhere. It’s time to pour the wine and put the sad bastard music on Pandora while we cook dinner. We’re gonna fall asleep on the couch at 9 because we know how to party..”
I try not to go anywhere but our yard in my sweatpants, and because I flout convention when at home, I’ll often slip on whatever shoes are near the door to take out the trash or refill the birdfeeder. Recently, I looked down and discovered I’d slipped on my pink Birkenstocks over striped socks, and I realized I’ve become my mother. When I was 14 my mother had an entirely pink sweatsuit, only to be worn at home. Or when she was picking my friends and I up at the first football game of our high school career. She showed up promptly after the game and pulled up to the gates, where she rolled down the window and called for us. Embarrassed, we skittered into the car and hoped she would pull away quickly. We were in high school now, and the acknowledgement of parental existence was mortifying. She pulled away slowly, eyeing two girls sitting alone near the gates. “Do you know those girls, honey?” she asked. Their long bangs had been teased and sprayed so their crested over their foreheads and curtained one eye. They wore dark eyeliner and dark clothes, black boots over fishnet tights. I didn’t know the girls, not really. I’d seen them around school and been fascinated. They intimidated me. They possessed a cool I barely understood. I groaned. “No, mom. Let’s just go. Please.” Her mouth tightened into a determined line and she glanced again in the rearview mirror. “I’ll just wait a bit to make sure someone picks them up. It’s not safe for them to be at the park alone this late.” I glanced at the girls. They had scotch tape and were using it to tape their noses up to look like pigs. They giggled and fell into each other. We sat in the car for nearly one hundred years while my mom hummed and tried to ask us about the game. I was mostly silent but my polite friend indulged her questions. Finally, my mom got out of the car, pink from head to toe except for her feet, where she was wearing her trusty Birkies, as she called them, and a pair of my father’s navy dress socks. Why, I wondered, did she hate me so. When it became clear no one was coming to get the girls, she bullied them into the car in that nice, no-nonsense way elementary teachers have, and we drove hither and yon to deliver them home. It was a long, humiliating night with my kind and determined mother chatting away to four silent teenagers. In her horrifying sweatpants and men’s dress socks.. And now I am her. Sometimes when I am in my front yard in my tye-dye sweatpants I yell at kids who ride their bikes in the middle of our busy street, “Get on the sidewalk! I don’t want you to get hit by a car!” And they laugh and wave, because they know me from school. They also usually ignore me. My son is mortified by this behavior. I became friends with those girls. They showed me the ropes of teenage rebellion. They made fun of my mom. When we were adults, one of them teased her at my wedding, and she laughed and hugged her. When you have a good mother, there are worse things to become than her. I have worked hard to differentiate myself from her, to be my own person, and she has encouraged it. But some behaviors are ingrained. At least I’m giving my kids an interesting story to share when they’re adults.
3 Comments
3/2/2023 05:51:59 am
I love that you shared this story. I think we all turn into our mothers in one way or another.
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3/2/2023 07:41:48 am
Loved reading this! This is definitely a rite-of-passage in the teenage years. Some of my best friends have been thanks to my mother. We were on a beach walk --in sweats-- around 9pm one year, and there was a group of people having a bonfire. She walked right up, and to my horror, introduced me and proceeded to leave me there. 10 years later, we are still friends.
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3/2/2023 08:22:25 am
This slice rang true for me. I love that you write about how it is not the worst thing. I agree.
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