This summer I realized in a sudden and cruel moment of clarity that I am already becoming my mother. This has always seemed an inevitable, yet, reassuringly distant event. But I was wrong; she is closing in on me.
My family was driving away from the Olive Garden on a Saturday night when it happened. Without any warning, my mother and I began to sing in unison.
There was no music playing, no impetus other than our linked insanity. My father and grandmother in the front seat pretended not to hear (My grandmother may not have been faking; she is somewhat deaf.) My brother sat in the back seat, covered his ears and turned his head in shame.
With a bravado usually reserved for the tone deaf, my mother and I sang the first three verses of “On Top of Spaghetti.” Then we sat in the back seat together, content as the cats who got the cream, while the rest of the family tried to give “I don’t know these people sitting in my car” looks to any passerby who might glance our way.
I am not sure how this has happened to me. My brother and I have spent most of our lives sharing pained glances and jointly pretending not to know our mother (a difficult task when you strongly resemble the woman in question). I sound like a terrible person, I know, but think back to your high school years, when a mother who would chat about your eating habits, sleep patterns and crushes to anyone who’d listen was as near to being drawn and quartered as our modern times allow.
My mother listens to Click and Clack on NPR with a religious fervor, though her own car knowledge only extends as far as, “Barry, the check engine light is on.”
Every time she gets into a vehicle, she says “Home, James” as she settles into the driver’s seat, referring, of course, to our imaginary butler who will be doing the chauffeuring. She will then drive 10 miles below the speed limit in order to see just how many people will pass her.
My mother is also the woman who strikes up conversations with strangers on elevators: “We just got off the plane from D.C. I hate traveling. Where are you from? Do you know the Knappkes? You should meet them, here’s their number.”
She divides laundry not just into lights and darks, but into subgroups by color and material. She has seen every episode of Seventh Heaven ever made and still watches the reruns every night on ABC Family.
And now I see myself evolving into this gentle form of insanity.
I strike up conversations with strangers in elevators and waiting rooms. I find myself unconsciously saying “Home, James” when I get in my car and whenever I find myself being passed, I count the cars, out of habit. When sorting laundry, I do so in shame, refusing to let my roommate see just how many loads I need so that my reds, yellows, greens, and purples all remain separate.
I walk in on my mother’s Seventh Heaven episodes and make fun of her for her obsession. Within five minutes, I am hoping against hope that Mary will finally stop hanging out with Frankie and Johnny (who are clearly bad news) and discussing Lucy’s future as a minister.
I read what I have written, and I am a little afraid of what I have become. My brother has taken to treating me as a younger representation of my mother. He turns off the radio when I start to sing to prevent the travesty of my voice, he sighs when he drives with me, muttering, ” No rush . . . just needed to be there ten minutes ago.” I am the subject of my own disdain. But I have to accept the truth as I now see it: my mother is the picture of everyday insanity, and I am going to be just like her.
