Becoming My Mother
Written by Jen Friday, 30 October 2009 12:16
Blog
It has happened slowly with a comment here and a habit there, such as picking lint off coat jackets and needing to make soup at the hint of a sniffle. But the transition became more evident as my children hit puberty. I started leaving news clips on the fridge highlighting teen driving stats or touting advice from Pope Benedict XVI. I wait up on weekend nights worrying about, well, everything. I desperately want to fix pasta for anyone who visits. With my eldest finishing high school this year, I'm morphing into mini-Grandma at the speed of light.
This petite Italian woman is a powerful force, with a keen eye and the energy to create movement wherever she goes. She notices things like cobwebs on the ceiling and dust on the lamp shades. And she has definite opinions about men's shoes.
This morning I reenacted a familiar childhood scene. My son was preparing to attend a college recruiting breakfast and thus shed his favorite sloppy cords and faded golf shirt for the sophisticated shirt and tie required for such events. As I surveyed him from head to toe, his scuffed dress shoes emerged as a glaring flaw in an otherwise admirable attempt to appear like a presentable professional-in-training.
Grabbing the shoe polish and brush, I touched up the shoes on his feet while he stood in the doorway, his ride waiting impatiently in the driveway. Giving the required speech about men's footwear being a reflection of their fastidious nature, my son sighed as I scurried to brush on one last shine.
He thanked me politely but I saw him shake his head and inhale deeply as he got into the car. Standing in the hall with the shoe polish and rag in one hand and the brush in the other, I knew that somewhere between changing diapers and teaching driving skills, my genetic destiny had been achieved.
Now if I could just master that pasta sauce...
